7 





1 




nmamEsamm 



LIBRARY OF COTGRESS. 



Gljap./pR^SOb 
#0. MlV*- 



fUILTED STATES OF AMERICA. 



PEN AND PENCIL 



PICTURES. 



THOMAS HOOD 



)f 



LONDON: 

HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 

SUCCESSORS TO HENRY COLBURN, 

13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 

1857. 



INSCRIPTION. 



K R- 



THIS VOLUME IS, WITH ALL BEST WISHES, 
DEDICATED BY' THE AUTHOK, 

TOM HOOD. 



Oh, Gentle-hearted Reader, 
Whenever herein yon look — 
Believe me — the heart of the writer 
Is pulsing throughout the book. 

Like the strings of the minstrel's lyre, 
The chords of his inmost soul — 
His gladness — his love — his sorrow — 
Have blended to form the whole ! 

And if aught should move you to weeping, 
In reading the volume o'er, 
The writer's tears — believe me — 
Have dropt on the page before. 

And if you are moved to smiling, 
When a merry jest you note, 
The writer's heart — believe me — 
Was smiling, too, when he wrote. 

Then grant him what he is seeking — 
Not to Honor does he pretend 
As one of the Teachers and Poets, 
But simply to be as a Friend ! 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Introduction 1 

The Twilight Musings of an Old Man ... 5 

Une Pensee 55 

Heroes without Laurel 56 

The Tear that Dies .59 

The Death Watch 61 

The Forsaken 72 

The Whispered Consolation 74 

The Pilot and the Star 75 

Sonnet - . 76 

The Boys of England 77 

The Brook without a Name 85 

Time 88 

Jamie Claverslie . 89 

Chansonette ........ 92 

The Home of Romance 94 

Footprints 99 

Only a Flower 129 

The Sparkling Waters 131 

The Two Battle Fields 133 

White Wings 136 

Panurgus Pebbles 138 

Better 156 

Don Roderick 157 



VU1 CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Die Herz-Blume 159 

To Will-o'-the Wisp 160 

The Cavalier and the Puritan . . . . . 161 

The Birthday 190 

The Song of Steam 193 

Marlborough House 199 

A Vigil 210 

Under the Sea 212 

The Cry of the Mothers in England . . . .214 

The Gate-Keeper of the City of Tombs . . . 216 

Fallen in Battle ! 245 

To-Bacchus 247 

The Reason Why " .249 

" Dixit Insipiens !" 250 

A Wreath of Smoke 252 

The Burden of the Isles 273 

The Four Seasons . . . . . . .275 

In the West 277 

Sonnet 278 

The Popular Air 279 

The Moss-Trooper's Dirge 284 

The Palmer's Tree 285 

1855 298 

" Wha' will ye gie to Prince Charlie ?" ... 299 

Whither? 300 

The North Star 301 

Light and Shade 314 

Donald 317 

It Was . 318 

Helen Irving 322 

Angels 328 

Fire Fancies 331 



PEN AND PENCIL PICTURES. 



INTRODUCTION. 

The following pages are submitted to the public 
in the humble hope that, for a few hours, to a few 
readers, they may afford some slight pleasure and 
amusement. Should they do so their mission will 
be fulfilled ! Written at spare times, and being- 
only passing fancies photographed by the chemistry 
of pen and ink as they flitted by, their aim is no 
higher than to distract attention from the footfalls 
of Goodman Time, when to weary ears he seems to 
have dropt, from the gallop, canter, trot, amble, and 
all the other faster paces of Rosalind's catalogue, 
into a tiresome plodding, or worse still, appears to 
have gone dead-lame. 

To those then with whom that gentleman, whose 



2 INTRODUCTION. 

forelock the old proverb somewhat rudely advises us 
to assault, has fallen into this shuffling gait, this 
small volume may prove not unacceptable ; and let 
those, who would criticise too harshly, remember 
that it does not profess to be a laboured work of 
years aiming at some great purpose — but is merely a 
collection of sketches — the gradual growth of spare 
hours similar to those which they are intended to 
enliven. 

The coral reef rises slowly, atom by atom, from 
the depths of the sea. Around it, in the misty green 
light of the waters, the strange monsters of Ocean 
poise upon wing-like fins — the golden and fairy- 
hued fishes of the tropical seas dart to and fro 
among its branches, and beneath it — red, green, 
and purple — wave the wonderful sea-blossoms — or 
more wonderful still, the living flowers — the ane- 
monies and a thousand nameless zoophytes open 
their petal-limbs and thrust their " fairy horns 
through their dim water-world." The architects 
are only minute — almost invisible — insects ! They 
toil day by day, and year by year, building upward 
through the sea. 

Nothing know they of the world above the 
waters, save perchance what they hear from the 
elfin Nautilus, when, at the approach of the tern- 



INTRODUCTION. 3 

pest, he furls his tiny sails and ships his oars and 
sinks down — ever down to the silent dim depths of 
the sea. 

Save this they know nothing of the world above, 
and yet they toil on, until at length emerging from 
the waves, they behold the great golden sun 
shining upon them from the azure of a tropical 
sky! 

Anon upon the reef is drifted a tress of sea-weed 
— the fragment of a wreck — a broken branch — and 
ere long a weary sea-bird folds its white wings and 
rests there, bearing in its bill a seed-pod — or a 
single grain of wheat, which falling there takes root. 
Meanwhile the ocean goes on casting its waifs and 
strays upon the rock, and so the islet grows ! 

Then long years after comes a stately vessel, and 
the watchers from her deck behold a little fairy 
island, bright with emerald turf and nodding with 
shady palms, and spreading trees " the leafy 
homes" of a myriad bright-hued birds. 

Safe in the glassy bay the vessel lies becalmed, 
though loud roar the breakers beyond the reef — 
tossing their angry foam far inland, and sprinkling 
with briny dew the soft verdant lawns, where lie 
the sailors wrapt in dreamy quiet, like Ulysses' 
mariners among the lotos boughs. 



4 INTRODUCTION. 

And yet that little Eden in the sea is merely the 
work of invisible creatures, who patiently toiled 
upward through the dim uncertain gleam of the 
waters — through storm and tempest — seeking for 
" light— more light !" 

So, in the depths of the human mind, fancies — 
unseen architects — are ever framing bright fabrics. 
Slowly, day by day, they build until at length their 
completed task is brought into the light of day. 

The Ocean of Life adds its waifs and strays— its 
experiences and warnings, in the wrecks of visionary 
hopes and fears, and Love folds his bright pinions, 
brooding over the heart and sowing the seeds of 
happiness and beauty. 

Built thus imperceptibly and unwatched amid 
the storms and dim uncertain gleamings of the 
Ocean of Life — aiming at "light — more light" 
has this work come to fulfilment : and if amid 
the tempests of the world one weary heart finds 
an anchor for one short hour, and drinks peace 
or enjoyment from its pages— if one weather-tossed 
bark finds for a time a safe haven in the bay of the 
Coral Isle — will you say that the coral insects have 
toiled to no purpose — that the fancies have fashioned 
in vain ? 



THE 

TWILIGHT MUSINGS OF AN OLD MAN. 



CHAPTER I. 



" Ah ! distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, 
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the 
floor !" 

THE HAVEN". 

" Deep as love — 
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret ; 
Death in Life ! the days that are no more !" 

TENNYSON. 

" All, all are gone, the old familiar faces !" 

LAMB. 

I remember — many things — and many men. 
You will find me a garrulous old man, yet I was 
not always so. I remember— yes, remember well— 
the time when I was a boy — a youth, silent and 
reserved ; oh, how long ago ! I remember my 



h THE TWILIGHT MUSINGS 

school- days — the days of my youth — the days of nry 
manhood ! Yes, " I remember/' it is the burden 
of an old man's song, ever recurring. And I pray 
God earnestly, if it be His good pleasure, that I may 
never lose the blessed memories of the past. Oh ! 
they are musical, those two words. And memory 
is, indeed, a good gift — like the voiceless echo, that 
haunts your brain, of the song that some loved voice 
has sung. I remember when such songs were 
ringing in my ears — morning, noon, and night — 
never tiring. I remember her who sang them. 
And what is it that strikes against my hand as I 
raise it to brush — it cannot be a tear from my 
eyelid ? A locket, and within it a curl of soft brown 
hair. Ah ! that voice was silent for ever when that 
dark tress was severed. I remember when I told 
my love to her first. It was not a glowing sunset 
(as I then thought it was) ; no, it was a calm 
autumn twilight, when only the highest clouds 
retained traces of the departed sun in bright spots. 
My memory has such bright spots too, and this is 
one of them. I remember her standing beneath 
the beautiful white jasmine, with its silvery stars, 
and its perfume, sweet as the memories of the past 
— with her deep, clear eyes, and her soft brown 
hair ; and she was singing — she loved singing, and 



OF AN OLD MAN. 7 

I loved singing too, for I loved her, and she was an 
embodied song. Alas ! they are only the echoes of 
that song that now .die along the deserted cham- 
bers of my heart. But I remember what she 
sang — 

" He came to me to woo me, 
And he whispered low unto me, 
And he knelt adown before me, 
As though he would adore me, 
And he said, ' Oh, can you love me, 
Can you love as I love you ?' 

" And I bent me down and told him, 
How dear my heart did hold him, 
And I blessed him, and I praised him, 
And from his knees I raised him, 
And I said, that I could love him, 
Could love Mm as he loved me /" 

And then I drew nearer, and repeated low the 
words she had sung. I did so, scarcely knowing 
what I did. And I said, " Oh ! can you love me — 
can you love, as I love you ?" And I remember 
how she turned to me, and how I led her into the 
orchard, and there, amid the shady trees, whose 
fruit was rivalled in blushes by my darling's cheeks, 



THE TWILIGHT MUSINGS 

there she told rue all her love ; and when I asked 
her if she could love me as I loved her, she said — 
" Oh ! far, far more." And I remember then was 
our first quarrel, for I said that was impossible. 
And yet, I think, we quarrelled more for the sake of 
making it up again. 

But the fire is burning low, and I shall go to my bed, 
and in the morning I shall awake, and know that an 
angel has kissed me in my slumbers, for my pillow 
is bedewed with tears that I do not think I shed. 
Do not smile at what you may call an old man's 
fancies, for they are dear to me. I have no friends 
but those who are now angels of light, and they 
loved me so fondly when living, they cannot but 
visit me sometimes now. Yet it is a dream— life is 
a dream — and now the last spark has died away on 
the hearth, and I am weary ! Ah ! I remember a 
time when I was not so easily wearied ; and yet I 
still love to sit here before the fire, that flickers, 
and fades, and expires like a young man's hopes. 
I love to think of my young hopes,, and those who 
shared them : sitting here till I fall asleep and 
dream of the blessed past, and I awake to the 
caresses of her dog, now old and grey like his 
master. Ah ! I remember the little, low green 



OF AN OLD MAX. 

wicket, that did not bar his entrance to a white 
cottage. Oh ! how well I remember that cottage. 
The sweet jasmine over the porch was a slip of the 
one beneath which she stood on that calm autumn 
evening. And that cottage is not altered ; it stands 
as it stood then — then, when my hopes vanished 
like a bubble, and like the bubble's hues were the 
brightest ere they faded for ever. I love that little 
white house well: without, in the garden, the 
flowers roam at will, and the fir-trees on the lawn are 
now nearly hid by the ivy that we planted, then but 
a little slip which we brought from Berry Pomeroy, 
in the brightest week of my life, when first we were 
wedded. Well do I remember that day. We wan- 
dered through the plantation till we came suddenly 
upon a ruined tower that the ivy clung to fondly, as 
my memory clings to these dear recollections. And 
the sun came streaming through the loop-holes and 
gilded the old ruins, till they looked as they must 
have done when the banquet was in those halls, and 
the music sounded through the oaken roofs, and the 
cressets and the torches gleamed on the grey stones as 
the slow-setting sun did then. And we plucked it 
in the deserted " Lady's Bower/' with laughter and 
merriment ; and little did we then think, that when 



10 THE TWILIGHT MUSINGS 

the hand that plucked it was in the grave, that 
little root would have climbed to the top of the 
tall trees, and have mingled its rustlings with the 
sighing of the firs. And we returned to our little 
humble home as gladly as my thoughts come back 
to it again now. But the garden is altered since 
that time, and the roses shed their leaves over 
the weed-encumbered ground, and the double- 
daisies that we had planted in the borders, 
the little offering of a cottage child in grati- 
tude to my darling, have regained their wild 
simplicity. 

There were many simple flowers there, for her 
kind heart did not prize them for their worldly 
value, but for their associations; and, therefore, 
many a wild flower blossomed there that would 
hardly have found place elsewhere. There was a 
blue corn-flower that little Amy Lloyd brought, after 
my darling had been telling her some fairy tales ; 
and Amy said it was the flower the Princess Bluette 
had been changed into ; and I remember my darling- 
kissed her, and said she would keep it for her sake ; 
and the flower is blooming now, but the hand that 
planted it is cold in death. All the flowers are 
growing wild without, forgetting that dear hand 



OF AX OLD MAX. 11 

that loved to tend them. T\ ithin, in the silent 
rooms, all remains unchanged ; and the world rolls 
on, and passes by, in ceaseless tide without ; but 
that room stays for ever the same, and shall do so 
until I close my eyelids to wake to an eternity of 
joy. I know that when I am lying beneath the 
green sod in the churchyard, strange faces will 
gleam in those rooms — strange voices sound in that 
cottage — strange hands will work strange changes, 
and desecrate what I hold sacred. But, I know not 
why it is, these thoughts do not cause me any 
sadness; perhaps it is because then I shall clasp 
the jewel to my heart, and the casket will be 
valueless. But now all is the same — day after day. 
There stands the harp untouched— there lies the 
music-book unopened — save when the night-wind 
sweeps in and turns over the leaves — and then goes 
away with a new melody, and sings it to the fir- 
trees on the lawn. And there lies her work-basket 
on the table, with the reels, and needles, and 
scissors — once bright, but now rusted by the tears 
that have fallen upon them. And there, too, would 
have been her last unfinished piece of work, but it 
was a labour of love for the poor, and I could not 
bear that her last work of charity on earth should 



12 THE TWILIGHT MUSINGS 

not be fulfilled, so I gave it to the poor creature for 
whom it was intended. 

And the pictures hang there still, and in the 
vases on the mantel-piece are the stalks of the 
flowers she placed in them ; but the petals I re- 
member, a long time ago, lying withered on the 
marble — all that now remains of some of them is a 
little dust — the rest have flown away with the night 
winds that sigh and wander throug\ the house, 
and up the stairs, to that room with the white- 
curtained bed, and over the white-draped dressing- 
table, where the little ruby and blue bottles, and 
the choice little pieces of rare old china stand 
unmoved; and the scent has gone from the bottles, 
as the light and blessing of love has faded from 
that deserted house. And the winds wander on 
to the little room with the treasure of untouched 
toys ; and the little cradle in which I dimly remem- 
ber a baby face, 

" That into stillness passed again, 
And left a want unknown before !" 

A subject— and the only one — to be tenderly 
touched on, and spoken of, though ever remem- 



OF AN OLD MAN. 13 

bered and regretted by her and by me. And I 
know a green mound in the churchyard, scarce 
three spans long, and a little stone cross at the 
head, and on it these words : — 

" Here lies, hi blest and happy rest, 
A blossom bud that ne'er unfurled 
To the rough breezes of the world, 
But on its mother's breast 
Short time did fill two hearts with glee', 
Then faded, as though bom to be 
A link to draw to Heaven, 
The mother and the father fond, 
Who know their child the skies beyond, 
To God's high service given !" 

And in moonlight and twilight there is a taller 
cross, whose shadow seems ever to bend toward 
that little mound. And they told me when I 
grew well again that it was hers, and they tell me 
so now. But she will return — she will come 
back to me again ! I wander down to the cot- 
tage, and ever expect her to come forth to meet 
me — and she is there, I hear her voice — and it 
cannot be the breezes that sweep the strings as 
she used to do. But now the moon is streaming 
through the window, and the village is silent, 



14 THE TWILIGHT MUSINGS 

and the shadow of the church tower hides those 
two crosses that I have been looking at so ear- 
nestly; and to-morrow is the day— to-morrow — 
oh that I could sleep it away ! to-morrow is the 
bitter, bitter day that tells me so forcibly— that 
convinces me, all unwilling as I am — that there she 
does sleep at the foot of the cross. 



OF AN OLD MAN. 15 



CHAPTER II. 

" Thus we, oh Infinite, stand Thee before, 
And lay down at Thy feet, without one sigh. 
Each after each, our precious things and rare, 
Our close heart-jewels, and our garlands fair; 
Perhaps Thou knewest that the flowers would die, 
And the long-voyaged hoards turn out all dust, 
So take them while unchanged ; to Thee we trust ; 
Our incorruptible treasure — Thou art just !" 

UNKNOWN, 

" The moon made thy lips pale, beloved, 
The wind made thy bosom chill ; 
The night did shed 
On thy dear head 
Its frozen dew, and thou did'st lie 
Where the bitter breath of the naked sky 
Might visit thee at will." 

SHELLEY, 

I remember this morning, many, many years 
go. Frank was in Italy, and I had been expecting 



16 THE TWILIGHT MUSINGS 

him, and last night, a long time back, he was to 
have reached London. But the night had been 
stormy and wild, and the sea had run high, and the 
poor fishermen had some of them been obliged to 
leave their huts on the beach and fly to the top of 
the rocks ; and those on the island had awakened 
with the rush of waters and fled to their boats ; and 
the surge swept away the huts and nets, and left 
the rocky islet bare. Trees had been blown over 
the rocks, and large ones were to be seen in the 
morning, heaving and tossing on the hardly pacified 
surges ; and the rails at the turning of the drive 
that stood at the edge of a precipice of eighty feet 
were blown into the sea. The road went straight on 
to the white railing, till it looked as though it had 
led sheer eighty feet into the sea, and then, all at 
once, it turned, with the palings bounding it on the 
left, and on the right a dark fir plantation climbed 
the side of the hill, which sloped upwards to some 
height. There dwelt the timid rabbits that bounded 
down, and looked at the sea with their large, won- 
dering eyes, and then flitted back again to their 
holes. But that night none of them had ventured 
out of the warren. The very gulls flew to their 
homes in the rocks, and the white specks, that the 
blue lightning showed on the sea, were not the 



OF AN OLD MAN. 17 

wings of sea-birds, but the sails of distressed ships. 
Oh, how few ever reached a safe harbour ! In the 
morning I arose, filled with dismal forebodings, and 

mounted my horse to ride over to B for the 

letters, hoping to hear of my brother. 

I remember she came to the gate, and stood there 
watching me ; and Luath, the fine hound, hung 
back to stay with his mistress, but I called him and 
he came unwillingly. In turning to call him, I 
looked at her. There she stood by the green 
wicket, in her white dress, like a gleam of sun- 
shine; and though it was too far to see them, I 
knew that her clear, bright eyes were watching me 
so earnestly ; and I came to the bend of the road : 
and I turned it, and I saw her no more, no 
more!— yes, I saw her once more ! But how 
blessed to me is the memory of that day, though 
bitter and inflexible the decree then seemed that 
made it the darkest day of my life. Still it is 
blessed when I think how that last day was spent— 
spent as it should be by one on the point of leaving 
this world. And in my inquiries for her on the 
next day, there were few in the village that she 
had not visited ; and where she visited, she was 
not content with moral teaching and good advice, 



18 THE TWILIGHT MUSINGS 

but with warm, earnest deeds, and good, kind, 
Christian gifts. 

I rode to the town, but the letters had not 
arrived. And, oh, Heaven ! the anguish I endured 
in my ride home ! I did not think it could be 
equalled, till I felt agonies, far, far more dreadful. 

That night, when I returned home late, she was 
not there. The next morning she returned not. 
All that night I searched, and in the morning, 
wearied out with my exertions, I lay down and fell 
into a deep sleep; but the search was carried on 
untiringly. 

And there were whispers in the village. The 
kind, good people, came to see me, and " they were 
sorry." I remember they said, " she was young — 
giddy ; they were sorry for me." But I was angry, 
God forgive me, and I spake words that I repent of 
now. But oh ! she could not, could not have done 
so. She, my darling, so good, so true ! — Oh, no ! 
Thank Heaven, I did not for a moment doubt her ; 
and I forgive them as a Christian, and pray that 
they may be forgiven, who wronged her only in 
thought. In the afternoon, when I awoke, I was 
called for by a little boy, who came, he said, from 
his mother — his little sister was dying. They lived 



OP AN OLD MAN. 19 

in a small hut on the sea-shore, nearly two miles 
from my house. He told me that they had expected 
her down there — she had promised to come two 
days ago. I needed no further incitement, but 
leaped on my horse and galloped along the shore. 
Luatk, too, who had been very mournful for the 
whole day, now strode boldly on in front. A mile 
and a half were soon passed, when I heard him howl 
loudly, and saw him dash onwards towards the foot of 
the cliff. I looked up, and almost expected to see her 
at the top. But there was nothing there save the 
few remaining stakes of the palings ; — she was not 
there. And the dog howled again — such a long, 
mournful cry, human, like the despairing cry of 
some strong man in his death-throes. I ap- 
proached, as it were, in a dream — slowly — hesita- 
ting ; and oh, horror ! there lay a human form on 
the shingle at the foot of the rock, and near it lay 
scattered the fragments of the little dainties that a 
small basket, which I almost feared I knew, had 
contained. Oh ! doubt and dread ! — I leaped to the 
ground — I raised it in my arms. One glance — and 
I remember no more, save a sharp, cold pang 
through my heart as I fell to the ground, while 
LuatVs long, sad howl rang again in my ears. 
A blank follows, and I remember no more dis- 



20 THE TWILIGHT MUSINGS 

tinctly, save that I dimly recollect lying in a bed, and 
dreadful creatures were around my pillow, and they 
gibed and gibbered at me ; and I remember too 
that she tended me. I know that she did. I re- 
member that alone, plainly, of all that happened to 
me in this half-consciousness. But they told me 
when I awoke that I had been fevered and delirious 
for three weeks — and they said she had been buried 
the day after, I— oh ! horror — I found her ! But oh! 
no— no — it was not true — she had tended me in my 
illness. They toldme thatlhad been delirious. Would 
that I were so now, if in that delirium she might 
tend me still. Slowly I recovered my health — my 
spirits never— though Heaven knows I am not 
gloomy or despairing. And as I recovered, I saw 
that I was in the Manor House, not in my little 
parsonage-house. And they told me Frank was 
dead ; but I was so stunned by my woe, that my 
heart only throbbed more quickly for the moment, 
and the tears that had risen in my eyes for her, fell 
to the memory of my brother. Oh ! the long, long 
months— the slow, slow progress of returning health, 
and the unutterable weight of woe. And I ordered 
them to lock up the Parsonage, and touch nothing 
there. And as soon as I was strong enough, they 
told me that they had found out that on that day 



OF AN OLD MAN. 21 

on which she had promised to visit the sick child, 
she had gone — she had always performed her pro- 
mises. And that child was born when our sweet 
little one smiled upon us for the first time ; and that 
small link had made her love the child, and perhaps 
caused her not to mention her going to me, for we 
had few secrets from one another. They said it 
was supposed, that in going there in the dusk of 
the evening, she missed the white palings which 
would have indicated the turn, and had fallen over 
the cliff. Oh! horrible! horrible — she so tenderly 
watched and cared for, to lie on those cold, heartless 
stones for a night and day, unwatched, untended ; 
and the rain beating on that brow, that I would 
not allow the " winds of heaven visit too 
roughly." 

At length I grew well, and got down and about 
again. But I could never endure the sight of those 
people who lived in the hut on the shore, though I 
never let them see it, Heaven knows, and I knew 
it was a sin in the sight of my Creator ; and I 
prayed earnestly for forgiveness ; and I took that 
child (for she recovered and grew up a good girl) as 
a servant, that the sight of her might be as a 
penance for my sin. And though her step is light, 
and her voice sounds joyous, in the house, I never 



22 THE TWILIGHT MUSINGS 

hear her, or see her, without a feeling, that is like 
pain, at my heart. 

How much can happen in three short weeks ! 
Poor Frank, what a sad fate was his. He was a 
noble boy — two years my elder; and my father, 
good old man, educated us both mostly at home. 
Frank was a joyous, gay lad, and looked forward to 
entering the army. We were both of us very fond 
of one another, and grew up together, and played 
together, and fished together — read the same books, 
followed the same sports and pursuits, and assisted 
each other in our compositions, for we both of us 
dabbled a little in poetry ; and I have a whole port- 
folio of our verses, which I will look out some even- 
ing. I often think what a comparison might be 
made between our verses — as between ourselves — 
his, gay, fanciful, and fresh — and mine, dim, with 
a foreshadowing of grief in them. And when I 
settled in my living, he gave up his ideas of going 
into the army, and lived in this house, for our 
much-loved father had gone to sleep quietly, as I 
hope I shall, when it pleases my Father in Heaven 
to call me to meet her. We lived very happily, my 
brother and I, for some few years ; and he loved a 
fair, young girl; she was so then. She lived at the 
town of B . He was so gay and joyous, but 



OF AN OLD MAN. 23 

too shy to declare his passion for her. I smiled at 

the excuses he made for visits to B ; his 

fishing-rod was broken, and it must go into the 
town, though he had himself mended a similar 
fracture in mine most admirably the week before ; 
and he was eager about a new book, which, after he 
had obtained it, lay uncut on the shelves for weeks. 
And one day he came to me, complaining of ill 
health, and said he should ride into town to see our 
good doctor. I laughed then, for he looked well, 
and there was more than his usual colour in his 
cheeks. Alas ! I did not know it to be but the 
sign of the disease within, and I thought he had 
determined to propose to his Mary. And in the 
evening he returned pale and thoughtful, and I 
drew him aside and asked him what was the matter. 
We went into the study, for he was often down 
with me — the little Parsonage had then a cheerful 
aspect. How well I remember his words — 
" Everard, I am dying ! slowly, very slowly, but 
surely ! I am consumptive, and my only hope is a 
visit to Italy." I burst into tears. 

" I am not sorry for myself, but for you, and 
because this dreadful disease is, I fear, too deeply 
rooted; and I dare not whisper my love to my 



24 THE TWILIGHT MUSINGS 

Mary to blight her young days with my doubtful 
fate." 

The noble fellow! — and he never saw her again, 
until his return home during those three weeks of 

agony. I went into B myself, to see her, and 

making her promise secresy, I told her all. Poor 
girl — she loved him then very much, but she was a 
young and simple girl that, like the slender reed, 
bends lowest under misfortune, but only to rise 
again unscathed. I told her (though it was a pain- 
ful task) because I did not choose that she should 
think him false and fie! on account of that which 
really arose from his great love to her. And he 
went to Italy, and long after I heard from him that 
he was coming to England, and was better — much 
better. 

And then came that awful night ! 

The vessel was so tossed and shaken that he 
relapsed hopelessly. And when they told him he 
could not live, the expectation of seeing his Mary 
died within his heart, and he murmured — " Let 
me see her ere I die." And she came, and then he 
told her how he had loved her; and in a whisper, 
she told him that she, too, had loved— loved him; 
and he blessed her, and asked her to lay a tress of 



CF AN OLD MAN. 25 

her hair upon his breast in the coffin. And he 
closed his eyes for ever, folded in the arms of his 
own Mary. She was inconsolable at the time ; but 
afterwards, as I got the better of my fever, she 
recovered her spirits. And I remember, some years 
after, she was married to another. He was a good 
man, and a kind ; yet I hardly liked to think of it, 
but I loved her for my brother's sake ; and she and 
her children used to come here, for many years, to 
see me at Christmas,; and they called me their 
uncle, and I used to dream that they were Frank's 
—and I forgave her as I k, far he had done already 
in Heaven. Now the night is closing in, and the 
wind is moaning without, grieving for what it did 
on this day so many years ago. I almost fancy it 
has never been so fierce since ; but still I cannot bear 
to hear it. I will go to my lonely pillow — did I say 
lonely ? Oh I it is not so. And the wind shall 
then sound in my dreams like the voices of long- 
departed friends whose faces I remember. 



26 THE TWILIGHT MUSINGS 



CHAPTER III. 

" 0, say not so ! 
Those sounds that flow 
In murmurs of delight and woe, 
Come not from wings of birds." 

LONGFELLOW. 

" They grew in beauty side by side, 
They filled one home with glee ; 
Their graves are severed, far and wide, 
By mount, and stream, and sea." 

MUS. HEMANS. 

I have been down to that little white cottage, 
and wandered through the rooms, but she is not 
there, yet I had hoped to see her to-day, for it is 
Christmas-day ; and last night there were voices 
carolling under my window that told me of hope, of 
new life, and how, centuries ago, poor shepherds 



OP AN OLD MAX. 27 

watching flocks in the fields saw the bright angels. 
I almost hoped to see my angel, for she is one 
now. But she was not there. Yet, as I mounted 
the stairs, I heard a sound that was like the cooing 
of a baby voice when it first tries to speak — when 
the rosy little liplets pout with the speech pent-up 
within them — and I heard the sound of wings, and 
I hurried up into the bed-room, and a white dove 
flew out at a broken pane. It left one white feather 
behind it, and I have it here. I have been to that 
house again this afternoon, but she was not there. 
I heard the dove again, and I thought, in a waking- 
dream, that it was the little low voice I had heard 
— oh! it is an age of grief ago — among the little 
white curtains of that deserted cradle. 

I love that bird, for it has taken up its abode in 
that cottage. I know she would have loved it too, 
and would have fed it through the cold winter with 
her own hand, for it could not have feared her— my 
Darling— so kind and so gentle, that when she 
walked on the cliff, the rabbits did not flit away 
from her, until Luath came up, and then, only, they 
hurried away to bury their fears and their large 
bright eyes in their holes. I dare not go up to 
that room to feed it lest it should fear my kindness, 
and fly away for ever; but to-morrow I will watch 
c 2 



28 THE TWILIGHT MUSINGS 

it until it goes, and then I will go up and throw 
down food for it. 

Hark ! the bells are ringing for Christmas, as 
they have rung ever since the church was built. 
Lights are gleaming in the cottages, merriment and 
mirth abound throughout the village, and every now 
and then my heart gives a louder throb ; for in this 
silent old chimney-corner all is still (the ringers 
are resting just now, and refreshing themselves 
with " spicy nut-brown ale")— so still, that I can 
hear my heart beat — so still, that a mouse has run 
out of his hole to make his Christmas-dinner of 
crumbs, though he watches me carefully all the 
time with his bead-like eyes. When every now and 
then my heart throbs louder, I think it does so 
instinctively with pleasure, whenever any of my 
little flock drink to my health. Let them be merry 
while they may, though many of those little happy 
circles around the glowing red turf have a vacant 
seat, that brings a half-suppressed sigh to the lips 
of those who observe it. 



:: There is no flock, however watched and 
But one dead lamb is there ! 
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, 
But has one vacant chair I" 



OP AN OLD MAN. 29 

True, too true ! but there are few where all the 
chairs are vacant, save one — perhaps few in the 
world. Yet mine are not vacant; no, I see little 
merry figures of children sitting in them ; and I see, 
dimly, the form of Mary. They are not here ; but 
they speak to me— not aloud in words— but to my 
heart in thoughts. They remind me of a time, long 
ago, when they all sat so, and of him who came to 
see me. Oh ! yes, yes ; ye need not to remind me ! 
I was not cheerful myself, yet when I saw those 
children so happy, there was a something at my heart 
that felt like what I had called happiness, when I 
was a boy; though I could not be sure, it was so 
long since I had experienced it. 

They were happy, very happy, as their silvery 
laughter rang through these old halls ; and I sat 
here by the fire, listening to their voices, and to the 
echo of voices, long silent, that seemed to mingle 
with theirs. And I remember little Frank running 
up to me with his large, earnest, brown eyes, saying 
that he wanted to play at hide-and-seek, but was 
afraid that he might be shut in a box like the one that 
" our papa had told us of," in the song about " The 
Misletoe Bough." They gambolled about me, as 
the butterflies sport around some old willow, and I 
blessed them in my heart. Now, where are they ? 



30 THE TWILIGHT MUSINGS 

All, save one, have passed from this earth. The 
cold winter came and killed the butterflies, but 
the hoary old tree is standing yet. 

Three perished in the same year \ and one— the 
last— my favourite little Charlie — while he was here, 
sickened of the fever. I nursed him day and night. 
They came to me as I sat by him, in his sleep, and 
they told me he must die — how could they find 
tongues for such cruelty!— he so young! — that I 
must for ever after miss his clear blue eyes and his 
golden curls, that he shook so gaily when he 
laughed. He sank slowly ; and when they told me 
he had not an hour to live, I raised him from the 
bed and held him in my arms. As I saw the little 
spirit struggling against the disease, the tears came 
into my eyes; and oh ! what would I not have 
given to have changed places with him. To me 
these sufferings would but have been the entrance 
into bliss ; but he had lost no friends, no dear ones 
—he was not leaving the few to meet with the 
many (as I should have done). The tears came 
gushing from my eyes, and fell upon his fevered 
forehead. He died there, in my arms, for I saw 
his eyes grow dull, and I bent over him and 
imprinted my last kisses on his lips. And while I 
kissed him, I felt his lips grow cold. 



OF AN OLD MAN. 31 

How little did I think, when those children 
played around nie, that but few years would pass 
away ere they would be sleeping in the grave. 
Frank, the eldest, was sent to a relation in India. 
There was a dark night and a storm, and the vessel 
that had left England with such glee and beaut y, 
was never heard of more. Harry, the second boy, died 
of the same fever as my bright-haired Charlie ; bat 
Fanny grew up to be a blessing to her mother, and 
it was but two years ago that she married one who 
had loved her long and truly. They are happy, 
very happy, and every night, as I kneel down alone 
by my bedside, I pray to my Father in Heaven, so 
far as it is his good will, to grant them long life, 
and longer happiness than mine ; and I pray him 
to forgive if I feel impatient, for man is but frail ; 
nor am I strong enough in spirit to look back on 
the past without a feeling of regret. 

I remember the story of Fanny's "wooing, and 
winning, and wedding." She was young, and so 
was he, but they have worked their way on in life 
together well. He was a young physician, and had 
but few friends among the rich, while among the 
poor he was very much beloved, for he was at the 
side of all who were sick, cheering them often with 
money, when heaven knows he could little spare it ; 



32 THE TWILIGHT MUSINGS 

and often er with kind words— for one kind word 
well-spoken outweighs the heaviest purse. I did 
my best for him ; my help was but little, yet it 
proved well for him in the end. 

He had loved Fanny for a long, long time. She 
was some three years younger than he, but she 
loved him truly. He had attended an old lady— 
one of my parishioners— whose story was enveloped 
in mystery, but whom I had known from my 
boyhood. 

She heard from the good people of the village 
about the attachment of the young doctor for 
Fanny. 

" They wondered," they said, " that a young 
man like Mr. Calrow should aspire to the hand of 
Fanny Forster ; and she was but a silly girl to 
listen to him, when there was Sir Somebody, and 
the Honorable Something Else, who positively 
worshipped her." 

The old lady listened to this without any remark ; 
but after her death, when her will was read, it was 
found she had left the young doctor a comfortable 
little competency. 

Her's was a strange story. She had been 
beautiful and accomplished, the only child of noble 
parents ; but they were proud, and she was proud, 



OF AN OLD MAN. 33 

and she loved a poor man ; she would have her way, 
and with a father's curse, who had never blessed her, 
she fled forth on the wide world. But he, for whom 
she had given up all, forsook her in her need. She 
was too proud to yield, and, with a strong will, she 
had earned her daily bread until the old earl died • 
and then — even then — she stayed in this quiet little 
village, to atone for her past faults and pride. 

It was with part of her riches that the young man 
took home his bride. There were some who 
wondered that she did not leave more to the young 
couple — but she was wisest. 

I am wandering from the remembrances of that 
Christmas night, when those children played 
around me, when a strange step was on the stair, 
and when, after long, long years, I met my friend, 
Henry Vivian. But, oh ! how changed from my 
old college acquaintance. So careworn and thin — 
that once high, noble forehead, prematurely marked 
with the furrows of the tides of life. There was a 
strange, stony glare in his once handsome eyes, 
yet there was a holiness about his grief and 
despairing wretchedness, that forbad me to question 
him. But the children's hearts yearned towards 
him — as they always do, Heaven bless them for it — 
towards the unhappy. They crept up to him — 



34 THE TWILIGHT MUSINGS 

they spoke to him half shyly— they peered up 
into his face, and at length my little Charlie 
climbed up upon his knee, and tried to smooth 
the wrinkles on his brow. A tear glistened in 
Vivian's eyes, as he bent down and kissed the 
child. They soon became good friends, and the 
little ones asked him to sing to them. He hesi- 
tated for some time, but at length broke into a 
wild, unnatural melody. It was like the music 
the winds play upon her harp in that little cottage ; 
yet it had a harsher tone, and sounded more like 
the night breezes that moan through the ruins of 
the old castle on the hill. The words I shall 
never forget ! — 

" Give me — give me ruby wine 
From the oldest of the kegs ! 
What care can it be of mine, 
If 'tis bitter at the dregs ? 
Shall I hesitate and think, 
Wasting many a festive hour ? 
Shall I pause before I drink, 
Until all the wine be sour ? 

" Hoses for my brow entwine ; 
Give me Pleasure's blooming wreath ! 
What care can it be of mine, 
If the thorns be hid beneath ? 



OP AN OLD MAN. OO 

Shall I wait, before my head 
That sweet-scented crown adorns ; 
Till the blossoms all are dead, 
Xought remaining save the thorns ? 

" Sing me some wild song of thine — 
Sing it to thy harp of gold ! 
What care can it be of mine, 
If or harp or voice grow old ? 
Shall I wait, still lingering, 
Till the voice has sung its last ; 
And the harp has bnt one string 
Tnned to echoes of the past ?" 

When he finished, the children gazed wonder- 
ingly at him. 

" He saw/' he said, " they could not understand 
it, and he prayed they never might— it was hardly 
meant for children — it was a song it cost him much 
to learn ; but he knew no other." 

He buried his face in his hands for some 
minutes, and the dancing flames of the yule-log 
shone on the track of a tear down his cheek, when 
he raised his head again, and said, " He would tell 
them a story —it was from a book of German legends, 
and he thought they would like it better than the 
song." The tale ran as follows : 



THE TWILIGHT MUSINGS 



THE MOTH AND THE CANDLE. 

There he stood, though all the guests had 
departed ! 

The candles burned brightly, and the plates and 
dishes, and silver ornaments on the table, smiled 
to see him there. And the trifle said to the tipsy 
cake — 

" What can he be idling away his time in that 
way for ?" 

The tipsy cake said — 

"Fb sure I dunno — brabs esdrunk/' 

And the champagne bottles held themselves very 
upright, and the decanters said never a word, for 
they had stoppers in their mouths. But the ices 
said — 

"It's very cool of him to stand like that when 
we are all waiting for him to go." For they in- 
tended to have a soiree when everybody had 
left. 

But the young man did not hear them. He was 
thinking of the cruelty of her he loved. Long had 
he worshipped her at a distance, for she was rich 
and noble, while he was but a poor poet who wrote 



OF AN OLD MAN. 37 

in her praise : and sometimes she had deigned to 
smile kindly and speak sweetly to him. That night 
he had met her — he had told her his love, and had 
met with scorn and slighting. 

There he stood, watching the door through which 
she had gone. He heard not the voices of the last 
departing guests. 

Presently he turned his eyes to the tall candle 
that stood proudly in the centre of the table. Oh ! 
that candle was proud ; it had a gold fringe, and 
it stood in a silver candlestick, and it said, " / 
am not tallow, not grease, not a part of over-fed 
animals. No; not even a composition-candle— not 
of a mixed, degenerate race. lama flower \" 

It forgot that since it had formed part of a 
flower, the bees had changed its nature, and men 
had altered its appearance. So it stood up and 
thought it was a rose ; and the prouder it grew, the 
faster it burnt. 

But while the poet was watching it, a little 
plain brown moth came flying out of the conserva- 
tory which opened into the room, and circled about 
the table. 

It stopped to admire a silver spoon, but the 
candle was jealous — " What ! shall that insignifi- 



38 THE TWILIGHT MUSINGS 

cant little brown thing admire that spoon more 
than me ?" 

So it burnt brighter. 

The little moth flew towards it; it circled 
about it, and fanned the flame with its wings. 

The candle said never a word, but it burnt 
brighter still. And the little moth flew into the 
flame. 

" I never gave you any encouragement," said the 
candle, as the little moth fell scorched and dying on 
the table. 

" Such is my fate \" murmured the young man, 
as he rushed from the room. But the plates, and 
forks, and glasses did not laugh now. There was 
no festivity in the supper-room among them that 
night. 

And the candle burnt down into its socket. 



The next Christmas I got the book he men- 
tioned as a present for Fanny, but the story was 
not there; and when, some time afterwards, I 
heard this history, I almost fancied the tale was 
his own. He had risen in fame as a poet— he 
had gained patronage— he had gone to rich men's 



OF AN OLD MAN. 39 

houses, and sat at rich men's tables. There he 
saw a woman, lovely as the famed sculptures of 
the ancients, but like them, alas ! cold and heart- 
less. He wrote in her praise, and her beauty 
became the theme of general admiration. He met 

her one night at a ball at Lord E } s. The 

next morning he was missing at his college, and 
was never heard of again. I did not know this, 
however, on that Christmas evening when he told 
this tale. And when it was done he rose hastily 
and departed, in spite of all my entreaties that he 
would stay. 

From that time I have never heard from him ; 
but I have read of a battle in India, where column 
after column reeled back from a breach that 
vomited forth death on thousands, until an ensign, 
at the head of a company, rushed up through 
the rain of bullets, and planted the British flag on 
the ramparts. His example encouraged the troops, 
and the town was taken. The gallant young sol- 
dier was found dead, but still standing, clinging to 
the staff of the flag he had planted so bravely. 
His body had formed a target for the enemy's 
marksmen. When they tried to remove him, they 
found the staff could not be released from his 



40 THE TWILIGHT MUSINGS 

death-grasp without force. So they buried him 
with "the banner he had borne so well." And, 
without the walls of that city, a tall tamarind sheds 
its fruit over the grave of Ensign Vernon. 



OF AN OLD MAN. 41 



CHAPTER IV. 

" I had a dove, and the sweet dove died ? 

Sweet little red-feet, why should you die ? 
"Why would you leave ine, sweet bird, why ?" 

KEATS, 

" Soiled and dull thou art ; 
Yellow are thy time-worn pages 
As the russet, rain-molested 
Leaves of Autumn. 
* * * * 

Recalling by their voices 
Youth and travel." 

LONGFELLOW. 

This morning it was bitter cold, and the snow 
that had fallen in the night lay frozen, so that 
it crisped and crackled beneath my feet ; and the 



42 THE TWILIGHT MUSINGS 

trees had clothed themselves in white, as the 
primitive Christians were wont to do at this 
sacred season. But a feeling of sadness was at 
my heart— the echo of an unknown fear was 
ringing in my ears. I went along the well-known 
path that leads to that deserted home. The morn- 
ing sun had just begun to melt the snow on the 
tops of the trees; and as I entered the gate, the 
fir upon the lawn wept over me, as a great thrush 
sprang out of it, and darted far away over the white 
meadows. 

" O'er all there hung the shadow of a fear." 

There was a prophetic sadness in the tear-like 
drops that hung upon the green porch. But 
within that porch, on the threshold of the house 
that had sheltered it, it lay — the reality of the 
foreshadowed grief — the dove — cold, stiff, and 
dead ; and the frozen dews of night had enclosed 
the frail little form in a crystal casket. I raised 
it from the chill ground and folded it to my heart ; 
but there has not been warmth enough there to 
restore it to life, for a long, long time. 

I dug a grave for it at the foot of the white 
jasmine, and it shall shed its perfume round it 
in the summer, and shake down its sere leaves over 



OP AN OLD MAN. 43 

it in the autumn — and the winter shall drop tears 
of rain — and night-dews shall mourn for it — and in 
my heart it shall be enshrined with the memory 
of my Darling— until that heart is at rest — and for 
ever. 

The breeze is quiet out of doors, and the moan- 
ing of the old owl in the ivy -grown belfry only 
makes the silence seem more deep; and the bats 
go flitting by the windows in the dim light, like 
half-forgotten memories of days long past. I have 
brought out the old portfolio with its discoloured 
papers and faded writing — here a pen-and-ink 
sketch, and there a defaced pencil-drawing; and 
here are some lines to Frank's Mary. I recollect 
them well. It. was her birth-day, and he was going 
to give her a little bunch of forget-me-nots; he 
had written the verses and read them to me. I 
tried to persuade him to give them with the 
flowers ; so he wrote them out on a delicate little 
sheet of note-paper, that my darling gave him ; 
but he would not let her copy them for him though 
his hand shook like an aspen leaf. Poor Frank ! 
he rode into town, but when he got to Mary's 
home his heart failed him. I heard the whole 
story afterwards. 

He rode up to the gate and found Mary stand- 



44 THE TWILIGHT MUSINGS 

ing there— of course not expecting or looking out 
for him, so she gave a pretty little start when she 
did see him ; he presented the flowers, and let the 
verses fall at her feet as if by accident— and she, 
" half-sly, half-shy," picked up the little note, and 
asked him demurely if he had dropped it, and he 
blushed, trembled, and said, " yes/' She gave them 
to him, and so ended poor Frank's love mission. 

They may not sound well to the ears of others, 
but they were only meant for Mary — 



" Sweet is the little flow'ret blue, 
Of lovers' thoughts the sign, 
Beneath the grass, and peeping through 
In love and hope to the evening dew — 
So beamed thine eyes, so soft, so true, 
So trustingly on mine. 

II. 
" Sweetly they shone — oh ! may they shine 
Many and happy years ; 
These lips, that praise no form but thine, 
With earnest love their prayers combine, 
That she, whose life is half of mine, 
May shed no bitter tears." 

True words, though simple, for his love was 
true. 



OF AN OLD MAX. 45 

This paper raises memories around me — the 
sound of bells and music — the whirl of the dance 
— and merry faces — and soft, soft touches. Oh! 
no ; fade not yet sweet visions of the past ! It was 
long ago — when the old church clock seemed to 
have stopped for ever, dreading to strike the hour 
of twelve, that was to add another year to the world. 
It was the approaching birth-day of one year, while 
we yet hung over the death-bed of the last. And 
in those few minutes, which our expectation length- 
ened into hours, I wrote these lines — 

" Ring — ye happy bells, 
Eing your last farewells 
To the dying year. 
He hath brought us grief : 
Ye bring us relief, 
For his end is near. 

" Yet ring sadly too, 
Tor some tears are due 
To the dying year. 
Though mixed with annoy, 
He hath brought us joy, 
And his end is near. 

" Mingled smiles and sighs — 
Blessed memories 



46 THE TWILIGHT MUSINGS 

Of the dying year ! 
Who can tell if this 
Next bring pain or bliss ? 
Oh, the end is near ! 

" Thus for the last time 
In this simple rhyme — 
Dying — dying year, 
I address thee. Bells ! 
Ring your last farewells, 
Ring them loud and clear ! 

" Hark ! 'tis their first knell : 
Hush ! 'tis their farewell 
To the dying year. 
One from earth hath gone — 
This another one ! 
And the end is here." 

" Who can tell if this next bring pain or bliss ?" 
Oh woe — it brought to me unutterable woe ! It 
was the year. The very thought brings that sharp, 
cold pang to my heart, and the roar of the sea to 
my ears ; and to-night is the last night of this 
year, and to-morrow will be the first of another. 
Here is poor Prank's last poem— unfinished. I 
remember that I found this among his papers after 
his death. It was written in Italy — in Venice. 



OF AN OLD MAM". 47 

Here it is, with its alterations and corrections, 
and in the margin a little sketch of a beautiful 
face, evidently drawn when he was thinking. 
It is a very personification of Bianca, and yet 
there is a likeness to Mary in it, too. At the 
bottom, there is a little gondola — and here is one 
of the " watery pathways." Ah, I have often 
wondered over that unfinished poem, like a gleam 
of light that, as we whirl along some dark road, 
gives us a glimpse of the landscape, and leaves us 
to fill up the blank from imagination. I remember 
such a gleam. It was as I returned from seeing 
Frank off to Italy. I was travelling along swiftly, 
when we passed a forge, and the glowing fire 
inside lit up all within its reach, and showed a 
little mill-stream that turned a large slow-moving 
wheel, poised between two ivy-grown piers; and 
the background was a thick fir plantation 
growing up a rocky slope, but beyond that I could 
see nothing. On the one side towered up the 
lofty firs, and on the other the outlines of cottages 
and trees, showing faintly against the dark sky. 
I went home and forgot it for years, until I saw a 
little sketch of a water-mill that Frank had drawn 
in Mary's album ; and that little glimpse of bright 
light came back to me. I went to that place, and 



48 THE TWILIGHT MUSINGS 

saw the mill-wheel and the forge, the pretty little 
village, and the old grey church. There was a 
patriarchal elm on the green before the yew-shaded 
manor-house, and there was a school, whence I 
heard the busy hum of voices wafted from the open 
windows ; and the shop, overgrown with white roses 
— and the brook that turned the mill and wandered, 
murmuring, through the village. Thus I returned 
and saw that place, but the tale must rest un- 
finished for ever and ever. 



" There were two sisters in the ancient town, 
That reigns npon a hundred sea-girt isles ; 
The one, with locks of sunny auburn-brown, 
And lips for ever budding into smiles, 
And rosy cheeks, and skin as ivory white. 
She was perfection — save that she was blind ! 
In her blue eye there dwelt no sunny light, 
But a vague look, all cold and undefined. 
Her sister was her senior — taller she — 
And darker — colder, but no less admired ; 
Tor she had eyes, though proud, yet fair to see 
As ever eyes, that hopeless love inspired. 
The people, when they named them, used to say, 
' The Mild Bianca ' — ' Isabel the Proud ;' 
And they were counted fairest (by the gay 
Nobles of Venice) of the floating crowd 



OF AN OLD MAN. 



Of gondola-borne beauties, that all day 
Flowed down the watery pathways with the tide 
In that old city of extended sway, 
'Queen of the Isles ' and the old Ocean's bride." 



For long after I read this, I sat musing 
and guessing how the tale would finish— how 
to fill up the landscape, of which life lighted 
up a portion, while death darkened the re- 
mainder. 

Would those two sisters have loved the same 
young noble ? and would the proud Isabel have 
spoken false words to her sister, and would she have 
believed them, and left him to wed Isabel, or would 
she have still loved on ; and would it have ended 
like the ballad that our dear mother used to sing 
over our little bed — the song, with its sad, strange 
burden of " Binnorie, oh ! Binnorie \" Or would 
* some villain of the " gay nobles of Venice" have 
tried to deceive the trusting Bianca; and would 
Isabel's sisterly love have burst forth in one angry 
blow, that laid the deceiver at her feet ; or would 
the Prince of some rich land have wooed Isabel, and 
would she, in her love for her poor, helpless sister, 



50 THE TWILIGHT MUSINGS 

have refused him; and then would he have 
promised to take Bianca, too, to dwell with her 
sister— and then would he have fallen in love with 
Bianca, and would they have fled from Isabel — and 
would she have pursued them— and then the gleam 
of a dagger— a stab— and a sister's blood on the 
blade ? But Bianca might have refused to leave 
Venice, or, if she had, she might not have listened 
to the wicked Prince — and yet he might not have 
been a wicked Prince — and there might have been 
no Prince at all. 

It is vain to think of it, for one sup- 
position brings another, and we wander away 
from the beginning ; and the fruitful brain that 
could have imagined and executed it, has long 
since turned to dust within its mouldering 
casket. 

It is long since I have written any poetry, 
but the sight of these old papers has awakened 
my old failing ; and I will try. Alas ! the 
last time I wrote, she was sitting by me, 
and our eyes were filled with tears. It was 
the epitaph of our dear little one, who was, 
indeed, " a link to draw us to Heaven." She 
has already gone thither, and I, too, shall soon 



OF AN OLD MAN. 



51 



follow her. And then we shall meet to part no 
more ! 




THE TWILIGHT MUSINGS 



CONCLUSION. 

BY FANNY CALROW. 

"There is no death ! — what seems so is transition ; 
This life of mortal breath 
Is bnt a suburb of the life elysian, 
Whose portal we call death." 

LONGFELLOW. 



^j part no more"— they have 

met now to part no more. 
is^ Yesterday morning my dear, 
gfe. kind uncle (we always used to 
call him so — that is, my bro- 
thers and I; but he has been a 
father to my husband and me) was found seated in 
his arm-chair, apparently asleep. At his feet lay 
Luath, his head resting in my uncle's left hand 
—the poor dog, though blind, seemed to know 
that he was dead. 



OF AX OLD MAN. 53 

They say it is terrible to look on death, but not 
upon such death as this ; and I tried to' check the 
foolish, selfish tears, that gathered in my eyes, 
when I remembered that death was to him a 
happiness beyond what words can tell. He was 
smiling calmly, as I have often seen him while he 
slept in the very same chair ; and, when he awoke, 
he used to say that his life was happiest in his 
dreams. But he is not dreaming now. 

A few verses were on the table before him. He 
had just written his name at the bottom of the 
paper and before the date, when he fell asleep — 
fell asleep ? No ; when he awoke from the dreams 
of Earth to share the reality of Heaven with her 
he loved so well. 



THE TWINS. 

Young Life and Love, with arms entwined, 
Together wandered through the world. 
Love died, alas ! and was consigned 
To Earth's embrace, with pinions furled. 

And Life passed weeping on her way 
Deprived of her twin brother, Love. 
Oh, slowly — slowly, day by day, 
Did her sad footsteps onward rove. 



54 THE TWILIGHT MUSINGS OE AN OLD MAN. 

At length the weary journey ends — 
She nears the Heavens' golden portal, 
Beyond whose glorious valves extends 
The Paradise of Life Immortal. 

As on their hinges back they move, 
She sees her long-lamented brother ! 
Once Earthly Love — now Heavenly Love, 
The same — and yet another. 

EVERAUD SHIRLEY, 
1ST JAN., 1 — . 

" The rest is silence." 



UNE PENSEE. 

" And there is pansies, that's for thoughts." 

OPHELIA: HAMLET, ACT IV., S. 5 

Lay lilies on the virgin breast 
Of her who dieth young ; 
And o'er the warrior gone to rest 
Let laurel wreaths be flung ; 
But strew ye purple pansies, when the old man's knell is rung ! 

Pair types those lily flowers are 
Of her, for whom ye weep ; 
Whom earnest prayer and loving care 
Could not among us keep ; 
But strew ye purple pansies, when the old man falls asleep ! 

Well-fitting for the warrior dead 
The laurels he has won — 
Proof of the brave life he has led, 
The dangers he has run ; 
But strew ye purple pansies, when the old man's war is done ! 

By all the glances backward cast 
Along Life's weary shore— 
By all the memories of the Past, 
That may return no more — 
Oh, strew ye purple pansies, when the old man's life is o'er ! 



HEROES WITHOUT LAUREL. 

They fell not in the murderous battle, 
Where cannon's roar and musket's rattle- 
Where rolling drum and trumpet-tone 
May haply drown the dying-groan ; 
Where the wild joy that fills the heart 
Can more than human strength impart ; 
Where fiercely meeting, steel to steel, 
Man cannot fear — or scarcely feel — 
Or — if a thought of Death should pass, 
Swift as the breath across a glass — 
He knows to die in battle strife 
Is nobler than an aimless life, 
And, wounded — weary — breathless — gory, 
Sinks dying in the arms of Glory, 
The smile of triumph on his face, 
As one victorious in the race, 
By the long toil o'ercome — opprest, 
Falls gladly on some friendly breast. 



HEROES WITHOUT LAUREL. 

So dies, amid the din of fight, 
The warrior striving for the Eight — 
His eyes — ere they begin to glaze — 
Can see the coming wreath of bays ! 

But, oh, not thus on battle plain 
The heroes, whom I sing, were slain : 
Not theirs the charge in wild career — 
Small time for thought — and none for fear — 
So madly — wildly onward dashing 
With ringing cheer and sabre clashing, 
Where, even if Death should be their doom, 
The Sun of Glory gilds their tomb ! 

Not thus they fell — not thus they fought — 
And Glory not the meed they sought ! 
Theirs was the struggle, where Renown 
Gives not to Victory a crown : — 
Wherein to fall, and conquer not, 
Is but to die, and be forgot ! 

Where on the narrow beds are laid 
The ghastly relics War has made ; 
Or where above the crowded camp — 
Like vapours o'er a stagnant swamp — 
Hovers Disease on vulture pinion, 
And pallid Sickness holds dominion ; 
There — or on verge of battle plain, 
The Watchers by the bed of Pain — 
d -3 



HEROES WITHOUT LAUREL. 

The kindly Soothers of Distress — 
The Surgeons — Heroes Laurelless — 
Strive long and earnestly to save. 
And of its victim rob the grave ! 

Yet not to them is given the praise, 
That the bold warrior's toil repays ! 
Denied to those the wreath of laurel, 
Who die not in a nation's quarrel ! 
But when our God, in brighter skies, 
Shall wipe the tear-drops from all eyes — 
When War her blood-stained flag has furled - 
Who kuoweth — in that Better World — 
Whether the wreath of laurel green 
Shall on the warrior's brow be seen ? 



But surely round their brows, who fell 
Uncrowned on Earth — though fighting well- 
Shall twine bright wreaths of Asphodel ! 




THE YEAR THAT DIES. 

Close his eyes — they look so cold 
Out across the snowy wold : 
Draw the curtains close around, 
That the bells with joyous sound 
His dull hearing may not wound. 

Clasp his hands — so long and thin ; 
They were fall (when he came in 
Just twelve months ago) with grain — 
Seed of happiness and pain, 
That he scattered round like rain ! 

Hush ! — he's gone — adown the wind 
Died that last vague undefined 
Word " Farewell " — 'twas more a sigh 
Than a word ; I heard it die- 
On the breeze, that moaneth by. 



60 THE YEAH THAT MES. 

Smooth the wrinkles on his brow — 
He'll not feel the pressure now. 
Hark ! the Rain sobs at the door, 
Thinking how it saw of yore 
Old Years die — and shall see more ! 

Lay him out ere he grow cold, 
Clothe him for the churchyard mould.- 
Who is this among us here, 
Standing by the Old Man's bier ? — 
Tis his heir — 'tis the New Year ! 

Hail to thee ! thou last of Years, 
With thy young eyes wet with tears ; 
But the woe of youth is brief, 
Thou wilt soon forget thy grief ; 
Thy new power will bring relief ! 

Leave us — grey old men, New Year ! 
To the earth his corpse to bear. 
Go ! the world with mirth and glee, 
Waits impatiently for thee. 
Leave the dead, so cold and grim ! 
Some day thou shalt be like him ! 



THE DEATH WATCH. 




Q , js«i HAD just finished the annotations 
ly^^lV\ x ^ to the Second Edition of my great 

i\£i2j '\y . ... 

' quarto, "De Planetis aliisque Mi- 
raculis Ccsli/^ My lamp was 
slowly expiring, and the night 
was profoundly silent^ save the 
low lapping of the canal against the basement of 
the house. Suddenly I heard the regular but 
muffled plash of oars. No need was there of a 
moment's thought to guess the dark, stern rowers 
in that black gondola that stole silently along the 
waters. They were my enemies— the emissaries 
of the Inquisition. I thought my retreat so well 
concealed, that I did not for a moment fear them, 
but sighed involuntarily as I pictured to myself 



62 THE DEATH WATCH. 

some loved one torn, in the dead silence of the 
night, from his home— some man, perhaps, guilt- 
less of any crime save that of being great and 
envied. 

I smiled to myself as I closed the quarto (the 
book that was the cause, but, at the same time, the 
consolation of my persecution), to think how little 
they guessed I was near them. Three times had I 
fled from the Familiars, rescuing each time my 
precious manuscript 

The sound of the oars ceased. Merciful Heaven ! 
I heard their slow tramp, tramp — tramp, tramp, 
ascending the staircase. The house was lofty, the 
flight of stairs long ; there was yet, perhaps, time ! 
I wrapped the precious volume in my scarf, and 
bound it to my breast. I rushed to the window ; 
it was too high for a leap, and I could see in the 
canal the long, inky shadows of two of the Familiars 
standing on the water-steps. And still I heard 
their ceaseless tramp, tramp— tramp, tramp, keep- 
ing time to the beating of my heart. 

Like a hunted hare, I coursed round and round 
the room, hopeless, despairing, half-mad ; and still 
nearer and nearer sounded the hollow tramp, tramp 
— tramp, tramp, until I screamed to drown the 
horrid sound. When the Familiars reached the 



THE DEATH WATCH. 63 

door, I had swooned ; they raised nie, and bore me 
down, but through all niy deathlike swoon I could 
hear the tramp, tramp— tramp, tramp of those dark 
forms, as they carried me adown the winding, 
echoing stair. They entered the boat, and placed 
me in the bottom, and then followed the measured 
fall of the oars. Soon I revived, and became aware 
that I was blindfolded and gagged, but I was dis- 
tinctly certain, from the strange, moist, cold, still 
atmosphere, that we were passing along one of 
these vaulted water-passages that lead beneath the 
prisons of the Great Tribunal. I seemed to see, 
through the handkerchief that bound my eyes, 
ghastly, pallid faces gazing up everywhere through 
the sluggish waters — the faces of those who were 
cast forth by night from the dark, dreary prison 
vaults above. 

And still I heard the measured plash of the 
oars. 

Presently we stopped, and again came that 
hollow tramp, tramp — tramp, tramp, up the echo - 
ing stone steps. 

They led me into the Judgment Hall, and un- 
bound my eyes, and removed the gag. It was a 
gloomy but lofty hall — so lofty that the eye vainly 
attempted to pierce its height amid the imperfect 



54 THE DEATH WATCH. 

light. At the end of the hall sat the judges, their 
heads covered with hoods, from the apertures in 
which I seemed to see their fiery, malignant eyes 
burning into my very heart. And amid that 
solemn silence, I could hear no sound save a 
perpetual drop, drop — drop, drop an ominous 
sound, like the fall of blood upon a marble pave- 
ment ; and such it was but too truly, for, looking 
in the direction whence the sound came, I saw 
on the right of the chief judge a bronze lion's 
head, with eyes of carbuncle, and ivory teeth, from 
between which every instant there fell into a brazen 
tray, resting on a tripod beneath, little folded 
papers, with ever and anon a red seal, looking 
like a drop of blood. Drop, drop— drop, drop. 
And my heart told me that these were the secret 
informations that were cast into the great Lion's 
Heads in the City, and by some unknown means 
conveyed thence into that brazen tripod. Too 
truly, each scrap of paper was blood. Drop, drop 
— drop drop ! I had never known before the im- 
mense—the almost superhuman knowledge and 
power of the Great Tribunal, nor wondered I now 
that they had discovered the place of my con- 
cealment, when they had so many spies in the 
city. 



THE DEATH WATCH. 65 

My trial was carried on silently. It hardly 
lasted a minute. The Familiar on my left, as if 
instinctively, unbound my scarf, took the treasured 
book from off my bosom, and bore it to the judges, 
who opened it, passed it from one to the other, 
gazing into it with their fiery eyes until I fancied 
I could see the parchment shrivel and smoke 
beneath their burning glances. 

And still those sealed papers kept their solemn 
drop, drop — drop, drop, into the brazen tripod. 

At length, at a sign from the judge, the Fami- 
liars again seized me; they allowed me no time— 
no opportunity of defence. They had the book, 
taken from my person, with the ink scarcely dry, 
and that book, militating as it did against the 
established opinions of the Holy Inquisition, was 
sufficient proof. I must die, and die by tor- 
ture. 

I was borne off, and chained to the floor of a 
small cell, shaped like a chimney, and then the 
Familiars withdrew. As I lay wondering what 
horrible, excruciating death the demoniacal wisdom 
of the Inquisition had adjudged me, I heard a 
regular click, click— click, click, while, at the 
same moment, the red flame of a torch threw a 



66 THE DEATH WATCH. 

long stream of light across the cell, pointing like 
a blood-stained finger, and revealing the ingenious 
apparatus of death. 

Directly over my head hung a huge iron weight, 
sufficient, had it fallen upon me, to have ground me 
to powder ; this was suspended by a chain, which 
passed over a toothed wheel, from the catches of 
which, as it slowly revolved, the links were released 
with that sharp click, click — click, click, that had 
attracted my attention. They were going, then, 
to crush my head with this ponderous weight, 
slowly and surely pressing inch by inch. Powers 
of Heaven ! what a fearful death ! 

As the weight slowly descended, with the deadly 
click, click — click, click, the stream of light de- 
scended with it, and I at length saw that the other 
end of the chain was bound to another smaller 
weight by a broad band of leather. 

Immediately the plan was evident. This smaller 
weight was only just sufficient to keep the links 
down upon the teeth of the wheel, but when the 
greater weight had descended to a certain distance, 
the leather strap attached to the lesser one would 
encounter a sharp, bright, semi-circular blade, which 
projected from the supports of the wheel, the strap 



THE DEATH WATCH. 67 

would be instantly severed, the chain released, and 
the huge weight would descend upon the wretched 
prisoner beneath. 

Click, click — click, click ! 

Slowly descended the weight— slowly revolved 
the wheel. Oh ! the agony of those moments ! 

At length I heard— actually heard (so acute had 
agony rendered every sense), the razor-like blade 
cut into the thick leather. One involuntary, con- 
vulsive swerve of my head — so violent that it dis- 
located my left arm, which was stretched out 
tightly and bound, to prevent my moving — and 
the weight descended. That instinctive motion had 
saved my life; but the corner of the ponderous 
mass had fallen on the fleshy part of my shoulder, 
cutting out a piece — as cleanly as if with a knife, 
and crushing it to the stone beneath. 

I raised my head— horror ! my hair was glued 
to the ground by what my fancy too truly pictured 
to me as the clotted blood of former victims, whose 
death had been too surely accomplished. 

Horror and pain had done their work, and I 
swooned. 

When I returned to my senses, I found myself 
immersed up to the arm-pits in water. I tried 
to raise my arms — they were bound down to my 



68 THE DEATH WATCH. 

sides ; and I found that I was closely fastened to 
a post in the centre of a vault half-filled with 
water. Meanwhile, a sullen drip, drip — drip, drip, 
told me that from the roof above me was con- 
stantly distilling the cold element that had restored 
me. 

I thought this had only been done to revive me, 
but I little knew the infernal ingenuity of the 
Inquisition ; it was only another kind of tor- 
ture. 

I could feel the line of the surface of the water 
against my skin as if a red-hot wire had been 
bound round me, and as I stood thinking, I felt 
it — literally felt it creeping higher and higher by 
hair's-breadths. On looking round me, by the 
dim light, I saw the whole surface of the water 
broken into rings by the falling drops — drip, drip — 
drip, drip. From the part of the roof immediately 
above me, no water fell, but I could see through 
the small circular aperture over my head the face 
of one of the Familiars peering down upon me. 
But he was only awaiting my revival, for as soon as 
he saw me move he withdrew, and left me alone 
with Death. 

Presently the rats, driven from their retreats, 
began to swim about and climb up my shoulders ; 



THE DEATH WATCH. 69 

they were too frightened to hurt me, but still my 
flesh instinctively shuddered at their cold, wet feet. 
And still continued that sullen drip, drip — drip, 
drip, and still I could feel the surface of the water 
rising up my neck, like the burning edge of a 
heated scimitar. 

Hours passed in this suspense. The waters 
kissed my lips, washed into my mouth, and pre- 
sently began to gurgle down my throat. My 
breath caught — I choked. Oh ! the agony of that 
time ! I suffered the most fearful torture, until at 
length, after a feeling, as if every blood-vessel in 
my head had burst, I fell into a sleep, amid the 
most delightful sensations, with strains of exquisite 
music ringing in my ears. 

But the Inquisition was not yet satisfied. By 
the very refinement of cruelty, I was brought to life 
again. Of all the agony I suffered, this was by far 
the worst. 

The tingling of the blood, like molten lead, 
coursing through my veins— the knife-like inspira- 
tions of breath— the tearing cough that seemed to 
rend ray lungs — all this was unequalled by any 
mental or bodily pain I ever experienced. 

To look upon those cowled, cloaked forms — to 
feel these torments, while above the red torches 



70 THE DEATH WATCH. 

flared and flickered with a hot smoky light, was 
enough to make a man, less weakened by pain than 
I was, fancy that he was opening his eyes in the 
regions of Everlasting Punishment. 

When I had sufficiently recovered, I was again 
borne to the first cell, and there bound down again. 
This time the means of death were more sure. I 
was placed in a stone coffin, a grating was padlocked 
down over me, and I saw above me, gleaming in 
the half light of the cell like a meteor, the bright 
steel head of a lance pointed towards my heart. 

The spear-shaft passed through two steel rings, 
fitting tightly around it. 

And now, tap, tap — tap, tap, came loud and clear 
upon my ear, and I perceived a small iron mallet, 
worked by some unseen devilish machinery, falling 
on the end of the lance shaft. Tap, tap — tap, tap, 
slowly came that tapering steel flame down to my 
heart — the glittering tongue so soon to lap my 
heart's blood. Tap, tap— tap, tap, and it descends 
on my skin— another blow and it will pierce to my 
heart ! 

Suddenly, a light burst upon me — the grating- 
was gone. I started up and found myself in the 
broad daylight of the 1st of April, 1855, sitting 
up in my bed, aching in every limb from cramp. 



THE DEATH WATCH. 71 

By my bedside lay the works of Edgar Allen Poe, 
while beneath my pillow lurked the diabolical 
originator of my misery— the huge silver turnip, 
denominated a watch, lent me by Harespring, the 
watch-maker, while he was repairing my own small 
still-voiced Geneva. 

I seized the monster by the chain and flung it 
from one end of the room to the other ; and never 
again did that huge conglomeration of creaking- 
wheels, jerking chains, and wheezy springs, disturb 
with its " tramp, tramp, drop, drop, click, click, 
tick, tick," the slumbers of a weary bank-clerk in 
the Nineteenth Century. 



THE FORSAKEN. 



I heaed beside a streamlet mute, 
With trailing willows overgrown, 
A lady singing to her lute, 
And thus she made her moan — 

"Ah, welladay !" she s 



" Spring not the blossoms of these bowers 
From mould whereof our graves are made ? 
But not from graves the lily flowers, 
The happy angels braid ! 

Ah, welladay ! Ah, welladay ! 



" In every home the memory dwells 
Of one within the churchyard green, 



THE FORSAKEN. 73 

But in the fields of asphodels 
Stern Death hath never been ! 

Ah, welladay ! Ah, welladay ! 



'■' Oh ! changing, changing with an honr, 
True Love is here an empty name ! 
In those bright fields the simplest flower 
Remains for aye the same ! 

Ah, welladay ! Ah, welladay ! 



:( Oh ! changing — ranging — cruel Love ! 
Forsaken heart ! and aching breast ! 
Had I the white wings of a dove, 
Soon would I fly to Rest ! 

Ah ! welladay !" she sang alway. 



THE WHISPERED CONSOLATION. 

" Ouk air'iQavEV, aXka KaQevdei.'" 

Not long to us was given 
The child our mother bore ; 
He is gone to Rest in Heaven — 
He is dead — he is no more, 

Our loved one's life is o'er ! 

And we murmured, broken-hearted, 
In lamentation sore ; 
" Our brother hath departed — 
He is dead — he is no more, 

Our loved one's life is o'er !" 

Then we heard, amid our weeping, 
A voice cry, " Weep no more ! 
He is not dead, but sleeping — 
Not lost, but gone before — 

Gone to a better shore !" 

So we whispered to each other, 
As his corpse to earth we bore — 
" He is not dead — our brother — 
Not lost, but gone before — 

Gone to a better shore !" 



THE PILOT AND THE STAR. 

I saw a pilot seated at the helm 

Of a small shallop, that unceasing toiled 

Against the tide. Within the Heavens there shone 

A single star, to which the mariner 

Did steer his course. Its glittering rays o'erlaid 

His watery path with silver : by its beams 

He saw to guide his vessel, and the star 

Spangled his robe with light, and on his head 

It threw a glory : so he seemed as one 

Who by his inborn greatness overtowers 

The sons of men. And yet it was not so — 

The light was of the star, and not of him, 

Eor had the star withdrawn its radiance, 

He had but been a guideless wanderer 

In utter darkness o'er a pathless sea. 

I am that pilot o'er that pathless sea — 
The ocean — Life — and Thou the guiding-star, 
Without whose love I should be cast adrift 
In a frail, rudderless, and sinking boat, 
Sport for the tides of Life. 



SONNET. 

"And he stayed yet other seven days; and sent forth the dove; which 
returned not again unto him any more." — Gen. vni. 12. 

Arise, ok, Heart, for at the lattice — hark ! 
Love humbly for a refuge doth entreat ; 
Let it not vainly in the midnight dark, 
Against the pane its wearied pinions beat : — 
Ah, wondrous, patient Love ! so strong in hope ! 
Arise, oh, Heart, and fling the casement wide, — 
Delay not longer, lest, before you ope, 
It should despair — being so long denied ! 
Twice did the Patriarch send the gentle dove 
To wander o'er the waters vast and dark ; 
And twice — upborne upon the wings of love — 
The bird of Constancy regained the ark : 
But the third time he watched for her in vain : 
So Love, too oft repulsed, returneth not again ! 



THE BOYS OF ENGLAND. 

" England can now send to her army in the 
East only boys of eighteen, and these are useless 
unless drilled." So spoke, during the late war, in 
the House, the Honourable Member for Some- 
borough. 

After such a decided assertion as this, it would 
require a little courage for any one to call himself 
" one of the boys of England." And yet it seems 
hard that we are, all of a sudden, obliged to become 
ashamed of that which was once our pride and our 
glory. 

Let us see what the boys of England are capable 
of— let us pass side by side with them up to the 
time when they cease to be boys — cease even to be 



78 THE BOYS OP ENGLAND. 

boys of eighteen, as the honourable gentleman was 
pleased to call them. 

Who so boldly as the boys of England, in play- 
ground or in school, stand up for their rights (real 
or imaginary)— barring-out a tyrannical master — or 
thrashing " the tall bully who lifts his head," and 
then "lies" on the ground, struck down by the 
blow of one of the boys of England ? 

Who but the boys of England, brought up in her 
broad fields and woods, hold the village green 
against all comers ? Who but the boys of Eng- 
land, growing older, swell her ranks by enlisting or 
vieing for commissions, are entrusted, first of all, 
with the dangerously conspicuous ensigncy — the 
position of peril and death ? 

Mingled with her men, the boys of England 
faced down the burly Chartist navvy in the "glo- 
rious days of the Specials." 

It is the boys of England who, face to face, and 
foot to foot, drive before them the sturdy, under- 
graduate-hating bargee. It is the boys of England 
who tear their boat through the water as swiftly as 
the long-trained waterman — nay, more quickly, for 
did not the Oxford crew beat the Watermen, in 
1854, at Putney ? 

It is the boys of England who, following the 



THE BOYS OF ENGLAND. 79 

rattling hounds, shrink from no danger, clearing 
fences that older hands tremble at. 

It is the boys of England who do this — yet, 
strange to say, the boys of England are use- 
less ! 

Yes— they may be bold, and strong, and of 
deathless "pluck ■" but, alas! unhappily they are 
not drilled. 

They may keep in order the Chartist navvy, 
but they cannot keep step in the double- 
quick. 

They may drive the bargee from the streets, 
but they cannot stand in a line, with their chins 
at the same elevation, and their noses in the same 
plane. 

They may face a desperate " rasper," or put on a 
furious " spurt," but they cannot hold their muskets 
at an exact right-angle to the earth's surface, or 
keep their fore-fingers on the red seam of their 
regulation trowsers. 

And what comes of this ? Why, as our friend 
the Honourable Member observes, England must 
buy. Yes, England (as foolish children have spent 
their money in the Arcades last Christmas) is obliged 
to buy a box of leaden German soldiers — unflinch- 
ing men — cast in the same mould — of the same 



80 THE BOYS OP ENGLAND. 

mettle (or metal, which you please, for the descrip- 
tion of England's purchase is equally applicable to 
that of the little boys we have just mentioned). 
Proud should Germany be to think that the Homers 
of the Crimea shall sing, in future times, of the 
Northern Heroes, with locks of tow, " to whom the 
eyes were as those of a cod, which the polymoch- 
thous fisher having caught, either off the hoarse 
shores of Newfoundland, or around the ice-bound 
islands of Loffoden, he, taking, boils in a hollow 
chalcopleurous vessel." They shall sing — like 
Horace — the "gravem Pelidse stomachum"— the 
" fair round stomach " of a German Achilles, " to 
whom the dust of the conflict and the smoke of 
tobacco were as the breath of his nostrils." 

These heroes are drilled — yes, drilled as sure as 
they live ! Oh ! happy thought of German govern- 
ment, that makes every man necessarily a soldier 
for a certain period of his life, in order that, 
if a revolution breaks out, he may be able to go 
through his military exercises with regularity, and, 
at the word of command, plunge his bayonet into 
the bowels of his convulsed country. 

Oh, yes ! the Germans are well drilled— they will 
stand so correctly in line that all those bushy, 
sandy mustachios shall look like one, and those 



THE BOYS OF ENGLAND. 81 

unmistakeably German button-noses shall melt 
into one dense snub ; that those strange, baggy 
legs shall dwindle into one — although (alas for 
the fattening, oily, German cookery— alas for the 
beer, the sleep, and the tobacco !) train, drill, exer- 
cise them as you will, the swelling contours of the 
German squat, round corporations will ever pro- 
trude irregularly in the "best dressed" line (I 
speak militarily) composed of German troops. 

Know this : the profile of the German corpora- 
tion varies far more than that of the German coun- 
tenance. 

But, they are drilled ! and so, by the advice of 
the Honourable Member for Someborough, and 
others like him, England endeavours to buy a 
legion of mercenaries to fight her battles, and 
assist, with purchased courage, the fathers and 
brothers of the boys who stay in England— useless, 
because un drilled ! 

Would it not have been better to enroll the Poles 
and Hungarians into a legion, whose only pay— and 
they would need no other — should be the freedom 
of their native lands ? 

The French — the " fierce, impetuous French," as 
a gallant old grey-haired Admiral has called them 
— they are not drilled thus — they do not march in 
e 3 



82 THE BOYS OF ENGLAND. 

an undeviating line, with their heads turning nei- 
ther right nor left, but perseveringly following their 
noses. The French do not carry their muskets 
at an exact mathematical right-angle, silent as 
statues. 

The French are not so bedrilled ; but then, you 
know, the boys of England are different — they must 
be drilled ! 

" The boys of England ! God bless them \" 
say I. 

And for you, Honourable Member for Some- 
borough, when, with showy sophistry, and perverted 
eloquence, you gave utterance in the House to that 
sweeping sentence, "that England can now send to 
her army in the East only boys of eighteen, and 
that these are useless, unless drilled/' did you 
think, when you spoke thus, how cruelly and in- 
humanly you insulted the many bleeding hearts 
and desolate hearths of England ? 

But now lay aside folly and laughter, and read 
on until the end silently — with a tender and pitying 
heart — with gentle droppings of tears, if you will. 
Read reverently — reverently as you would step 
among the swelling green mounds in a country 
churchyard, unmarked by stone or inscription. 
Read reverently : these words may be the only 



THE BOYS OF ENGLAND. 

epitaph of many a noble boy of England at rest in 
a foreign land, with the trodden, cut-up grass of 
the battle-field just beginning to spring again over 
him. 

Read reverently ! 

Oh ! Alma, Balaclava, Inkerman ! stirring names 
like war-trumpets — mournful words to many, as the 
slow funeral march ! You — you shall witness that 
.the battles ye beheld were not unshared by the 
noble boys of England ! 

Statistical reader of the returns of "killed and 
wounded," you shall bear us out — by the aid of 
those silent messengers of woe — that of those who 
fell at Alma, half were boys of eighteen and twenty 
— boys who fell bravely and nobly in their first 
battle, side by side with the hardy veteran. 

Read reverently ! 

Last of all — high witnesses before Heaven— come 
ye, mothers of England — childless mothers — sisters 
desolate— and others, even dearer ones, left alone 
and broken-hearted— shall not your tears, your 
wailings — and your silence more bitter than either, 
tell of the hearts that feel an aching void once filled 
by the warm, honest love of one of the boys of 



Fear not, weeping women ; they shall not belie 



84 THE BOYS OP ENGLAND. 

and insult your silent loved ones. England — 
their mother — shall remember them with tears of 
pride. 

Fear not, weeping mothers ! Nay, more ! Shall 
I tell you of One Who, at the gates of Nain, had 
compassion, and said to the childless widow, " Weep 
not V* 



THE BROOK WITHOUT A NAME, 



SHAKESPEARE. 

" A good deal I" 

COMMON SENSE, 

I met her by a little burn, 
That tinkled musically, 
With many a fall, and many a turn, 
Adown a bosky valley. 

So fair — so fairy -like was she — 
So lovely altogether : 
I could not choose but bend my knee 
Before her on the heather. 

She said she came to fetch the kine, 
But — (nay — I will not doubt her, 
And so I'll own the fault was mine)— 
The kine went home without her ! 



THE BROOK WITHOUT A NAME. 

I said I tramped o'er gorse and furze 
For grouse, that love the heather, 
But — (here, I own, the fault was hers) 
I did not bag a feather ! 

So through our chat (if you prefer, 
I'll even say — our courting), 
The lowing kine went without her — 
I went without my sporting. 

The sun was drinking from the plain 
The dew, when first we mated : — 
But it had all come back again 
Before we separated ! 

How oft we kissed, I cannot count ! 
Of raptures so ecstatic, 
The man who gives the true amount 
Is basely mathematic. 

In truth, she was the sweetest lass 
I ever met in Scotland ! 
And, if there's one can her surpass, 
I want to know " in what land ?" 

All day we passed in converse sweet, 
Forgetting grouse and cattle ; — 
All day the burnie at our feet 
Kept up its silvery prattle. 

Best of all merry brooks that flow ! 
A very smile of Nature ! 



THE BROOK WITHOUT A NAME. 87 

I'd make thee famous, did I know 
Thy proper nomenclature. 

Knew I the name thy waters took, 
Amid those mountain ranges, 
My song should make thee, little brook, 
As mighty as the Ganges ! 

Yet — though my brook no title claims, 
No hackneyed place in story, 
Nor classes with the lesser names 
Of Tiber — Thames — Missouri — 

I will not let the world forget, 
This noble title giving s — 
" The Bonny Burnie, where I met 
The Sweetest Lassie living !" 



TIME. 

Oh, silent Time — thou stately bark, 
That, floating down the stream of years, 
Art wafted by the breath of sighs, 
And borne upon the tide of tears. 
Oh, stay awhile upon the waves, 
That calmly sleep in sunny rays, 
The light that blushes on them now 
Shall ne'er be seen in after days ! 
Alas, between these happy shores, 
The widening river hurries still ; 
I would I were where first it rose 
A little, careless, prattling rill. 
A little, careless, prattling rill, 
Thou never, Stream, shalt be again, 
Fated to hurry ever on 
To the eternal, troubled main. — 
Yet flow still onward to thy leap 
Adown the foaming cataract ! — 
Man was not born to dream and sleep — 
His life to suffer and to act ! 



JAMIE CLAVERSLIE. 



0, up and spake sweet May's mither, 

And turned lier to her spouse — 

" Ye'se gar them bree the strangest ale, 

Ye'se gar them deck the house, 

And ye maun don your brawest claes." 

The mither sae spake she ; 

■ — But May she's up and o'er the braes 

Wi' Jamie Claversbe. 



Syne up and spake the old father — ■ 

" Sin May's to wed the Laird, 

Ye'se bake us cakes o' fine, fine wheat, 

Let a' be weel prepared — 

I'se gar them bree us bonny ale, 

Or else I'se gar them dree." . 

— But May she's up and o'er the braes 

Wi' Jamie Claverslie. 



Syne up and spake sweet May's sister, 
" I trow I'll deck me fine, 



90 JAMIE CLAVERSLIE. 

For giu I do so at May's wedding, 

The next ane may be mine — 

And sae I'll don my kirtle green, 

And bride-maid will I be." 

— But May she's up and o'er the braes 

Wi' Jamie Claverslie. 



Syne up and spake her brithers twain, 

" Our trouble we've na spared, 

"We've gar'd her leave her simple swain, 

And marry wi' the Laird : 

And now we'll be baith blithe and gay, 

For 'tis our labour's fee." 

— But May she's up and o'er the braes 

Wi' Jamie Claverslie. 



But up and spake sweet May's mither, 

" Now where is our May gane ?" 

Syne up and spake sweet May's sister, 

" 0, I can find her nane." 

Syne spake the gudeman to his sons, 

" Now follow baith o' ye, 

I trow she's up and o'er the braes 

Wi' Jamie Claverslie." 



They hadna ridden bare eight mile, 
Eight mile nor barely nine, 
When they were ware of a little lad 
Was keeping o' the kine. 



JAMIE CLAVERSLIE. 



91 



They speired at him, " Now have ye seen 
Our sister bright o' blee ? 
For, oh, she's up and o'er the braes 
Wi' Jamie Claverslie !" 



Then up and spake that little lad, 

" I trow ye'd better turn, 

For he is here, wi' mony a spear, 

Beside the Binning Burn. 

No churl is he, but a right gude Laird, 

And your sister bright o' blee 

Will nae rue her riding o'er the braes 

Wi' Jamie Claverslie !" 




CHANSONETTE. 

When day is bright 

With sunny light, 
And earth is deckt with flowers : 

The streamlets flow, 

With a murmur low, 
And the wind sings in the bowers. 

But when night is come, 
And in azure dome 

The stars their vigils keep, 
The reeds in the stream 
In silence dream, 

And the dew-kiss'd flowers sleep. 

But with constant mind 

The whispering wind 
Chants ditties sweet and low, 

And still, oh, still 

Does the moonlit rill 
With a gentle murmur flow ! 



CHANSONETTE. 98 

Thus, though by day, 

Where'er I stray, 
Thine image goes with me, 

In the night-time still, 

Like -wind and rill, 
My heart remembers Thee ! 



THE HOME OF ROMANCE. 

•' ... Pensive light from a departed sui 
"An old, deserted Mansion.' 

Romance — a queen dethroned — sits 
Within her ancient halls : 
The ivy slowly creeps and climbs 
About the crumbling walls : 
Her fading splendour all around, 
Like dying sunbeam, falls. 



A dreary solitude and still 

Fills those deserted rooms, 

Whose mouldering tapestry is mock'd 

By dusty cobweb-looms ; 

While rotting fungus bluely lights 

Their sad and solemn glooms. 



'KTED HOUSE." 



THE HOME OF ROMANCE. 95 

In the once-merry banquet-hall 
The grey owl nightly chaunts 
Within the turrets, dark and drear, 
The bats have made their haunts ; 
And, where the banner spread its folds. 
The blood-red wall-flower flaunts ! 

Where lances topped the battlements, 
The slender spear-grass blooms ; 
And feather-grasses lightly wave, 
Where once have nodded plumes ; 
And, where the sentry humm'd a tune, 
The drowsy beetle booms. 

The watch-tower, where the beacon blazed, 

Has caught a mimic glow 

Of poppies, hymned by countless bees, 

That ever come and go, 

With dusty sides, and laden thighs, 

And hummings deep and low. 

Beneath the mossy, time-worn walls, 

Within the mantled moat, 

There lies no tiny shallop moor'd — 

There swims no little boat, 

Save where the gnat contrives her raft, 

And sets her eggs afloat ! 

Aquatic blossoms crown the wave, 
Or nestle round the brim ; 



96 THE HOME OE ROMANCE. 

The gauze-winged dragon-fly alights 
On rushes tall and slim — 
The speckled frog and water-eft 
'Mid golden lilies swim. 



The waters, 'neath the bridge, no more, 

The moving forms reflect 

Of warrior in his gilded arms, 

Or lady gaily deckt — 

But gleaming Swift, and Kingfisher, 

Bright-hued and golden-speckt. 

The Kingfisher — that from the bridge 
Watches his scaly prey, 
And — while among the waving weeds 
The heedless troutlets play — 
Down-darting, breaks the mirror-wave, 
And bears his spoil away. 

The gleaming Swift — that builds her nest, 

Secure from harm and dread, 

Within the narrow loop-hole, whence 

The winged arrow sped, 

In days of yore, when this still moat 

Was dyed a ghastly red. 

Yet— spite of insect, bird, and flower, 
And spite of cheery day — 



THE HOME OF ROMANCE. 97 

O'er turret tall — o'er bower and hall, 
A shadow lies for aye — 
The misty presence of a queen, 
Whose crown has pass'd away ! 



She sits within her dreary home, 

And sees with dreamy eyes 

The gallant doings of the Past — 

Its glorious pageantries ; 

And " Hath the Present aught like this ?" 

Unceasingly she sighs ! 

But while she sits forlorn — as one 

Who never may rejoice — 

Throughout that castle old and dark, 

The dwelling of her choice — 

Through those still chambers, dim and drear, 

There sounds a solemn Voice ! 

" The New becometh Old— the Night 
Retreats before the Day — 
In turn new Cycles must arrive, 
In turn must pass away ! 
The Past had beauties — Present Time 
Has charms as fair as they ! 

" And, if no more ye hear of deeds 
Of gay and gallant knight, 



THE HOME OE E,OMANCE. 

Earth hath her heroes still, who strive 
In silence for the Right — 
Unheralded — to battle come 
Truth — Patience — Firmness — Might !" 



FOOTPRINTS. 

A TALE OF DEVON. 

" Lives of great men all remind us, 
We may make our lives sublime, 
And departing left behind us 
Footprints in the sands of time." 

LONGFELLOW. 

Ah ! the footprints of great men — what else in 
many cases have they left behind them ? Do we 
know anything of Homer save by the footprints he 
he has bequeathed, and we judge " ex pede Her- 
culem" from the Iliad and the Odyssey, of the rare 
bard, whose birthplace is unknown, nay, whose very 
existence is doubted. Ossian, too, what has he 
left us but his footprints ? Oh, our great men are 
e 2 



100 FOOTPRINTS. 

many who lie beneath no monuments, who have 
left us nothing save " footprints on the sands of 
Time." 

We could write a volume upon footprints — from 
the days before the deluge — before Adam — down to 
the impression that the foot of yesterday has left 
fresh upon the shores of Life. 

Let us go to the British Museum ; there we can 
see the tracks of the reptiles and birds, that crawled 
and hopped upon the wet sand and mud of the yet- 
young world. 

Can you show me, on the shores of the Rubicon, 
the dents made by the hoofs of Cresar's horse — when 
exclaiming, " the die is cast !" the great conqueror 
leapt over the tiny brook, and alighted with the 
clash of ringing armour on the green sward of 
Rome's territory. 

Can you show me this ? No ! Well, I can show 
you the marks of the identical frog that would " go 
a-wooing," in despite of maternal advice and en- 
treaties—there on the mud, that is now stone, are 
the marks he made in his travels. They remain an 
awful warning to disobedient children ! 

Look at these tracks on this slab of sandstone. 
They look as if some human antediluvian, suffering 
from an accumulation of gouty fingers, gatherings, 



FOOTPEIXTS. IU1 

and whitlows, had fallen on his face upon the sand, 
and left the impression of his swollen hands in 
it. 

But no— Professor Owen will tell you, that they are 
"Ichnolites — the footprints of a gigantic reptile of 
littoral habits, belonging to the Batrachian (or frog) 
order :" though between you and me, they are the 
marks of the well-known Boley Foley, who went a- 
wooing probably long before there was any Adam 
to have any Eve to w r oo ! 

In the fossil island at Sydenham, may be seen 
his effigy — the terror of all juveniles, who, wander- 
ing from their parties, come by chance to the water- 
side, and do not recognize in the huge creature 
before them their old friend of Gammon and 
Spinach celebrity ! 

Professor Owen will talk to you, too, about the 
Dinornis and Palseomys— why, bless you, the former 
is the duck that " gobbled him up" (the frog, not 
the Professor), and the latter was once fair Mistress 
Mouse herself, and I have no doubt that future 
geological researches will restore to us the wheel at 
which she was " sitting to spin." 

Look at these tracks of birds by the sea-side 
look at the footprints of the sea, that rippled 
over the sand: the marks of bird and wave 



102 FOOTPRINTS. 

are now to be seen impressed in the solid 
rock ! 

But the stone is pitted all over. Did the small- 
pox exist in pra? -Adamite days, and having no 
human being to attack, exercise itself upon the clay 
that was some day to be man ? No, these little 
holes are the marks of a shower that fell, perhaps, 
before there was any Adam to wish for an umbrella, 
or to make a substitute for one from the leaf of an 
antediluvian plantain, or of the Dock that was the 
founder of the family. 

See, here is the trail of a creature of the tortoise 
or turtle tribe. Nature, it seems, had Aldermen in 
her eye even then, and provided for them from the 
earliest ages. 

How strange it is, that of nations that have 
peopled the world since Adam, no trace remains. 

"Who shall point out the cities of the Medes and 
Persians ? 

Where are the ten tribes of Israel ? 

Yet, here imprinted on solid rock, is the record of 
a huge toad that sprawled upon the slime of a 
recent world. Why the great pyramid of Cheops, 
with all the dusty, rotten, regal mummies it contains, 
is but a thing of yesterday compared with the slab 
marked with the ripple of the tide of waters, that 



FOOTPRINTS. 103 

had never reflected a human form, but only the shapes 
of those strange monsters of which we can but 
dream — subtle geologists and anatomists though we 
be ! Why that slab was of the very sand first set 
to bound the sea, upon it perchance was drawn the 
line of which an Almighty Voice proclaimed, " Thus 
far shalt thou go, and no farther \" 

In poetry and romance too, what beautiful little 
bits do we owe to footprints. Need anyone be 
reminded of those lines of Wordsworth's about 
Lucy Gray ? The story, told in a few touches, of the 
footmarks traced — 



" Into the middle of the plank ; 
And further there was none I" 



has often drawn tears down our cheeks, when I 
was a child; as the horse hoofs in the sand by 
the Kelpie's flow have dimmed our eyes in after- 
years. Oh ! the picture of desolation that rises 
before me — the far-spread sands and the ebb tide 
foaming and tossing beneath the light of the rising 
sun, and those deep-dented horse tracks along the 
beach to the edge of the treacherous quicksand, 
upon the slimy, oozy surface of which, draggled and 
dabbled with the salt liquid sand, lies the long black 



104 FOOTPRINTS. 

plume, and the Master of Ravenswood is gone ! 
Never in hallowed mould shall rest his bones — 
never kind eyes shed tears upon his corse. 



" He has stabled his steed in the Kelpie's flow ; 
And his name shall be lost for evermo'e." 



Who has read the sad fate of poor Ravenswood 
without gulping down an indescribable something 
in his throat, and closing his eyes for a moment, 
because the words swam so before him ? 

Who has not gone into an agony of anxiety and 
terror with Robinson Crusoe, at the discovery of the 
print of the naked foot on the sands of Juan Fer- 
nandez ? With one exception — that exception 
being the old goafs eyes in the cavern— it is the 
most terrible part of the whole book. One can 
picture the long-bearded sailor in his hairy gar- 
ments, with his two guns over his shoulder ; with 
his parrot, perhaps, perched on his queer conical 
goat-skin cap, and his dog gambolling over the 
sands before him. 

Can you not fancy the start he gives when he 
sees that impression on the shore, a start that 
disturbs Polly on his precarious perch, and draws 
from him an exclamation of surprise and anger : 



FOOTPRINTS. 105 

while the dog comes running back and begins to 
sniff about the suspicious mark. 

Those who have had the good fortune to fall in 
with Inglis's " Rambles in the Footsteps of Don 
Quixote/' know what an amusing ramble it is. 
Inglis seems not only to have trodden in the steps of 
the worthy Don, but to have stept into the shoes of 
Cervantes himself, so well does he enter into the spirit 
of the great Spaniard — or does the great Spaniard's 
spirit enter into him, as the spirit-rappers would say ? 

The very headings of the chapters are own 
brothers to those in the history of " La Mancha's 
Knight." 

Lazaro, the Barber, the descendant of the veritable 
Barber Nicholas of Miguel Esteban, is a glorious 
fellow ! We do not know whether he is a fact or a 
fiction, and we close the book almost believing that 
there was a Don Quixote and that there did exist a 
Barber Nicholas whose descendants intermai'ried 
with the children of Sancho, (for how else are we to 
account for the rare wit and sparkling humour and 
roguery of Inglis' s friend the barber, Lazaro — alias 
Nicholas ?) Truly, those footsteps are excellent, and 
many a merry laugh have we had over them ! 

But the pencil, as well as the pen, is indebted to 
footprints for some of its happiest efforts. There 



106 FOOTPRINTS. 

lies before me now the picture of a snowy slope 
with a tower embosomed in trees in the distance. 
The moon is glistening on the white expanse over 
which, ah me ! sad type of fair Eveleen's fate, is to 
be seen the path of the false ". Lord of the Valley." 

Beautifully has Maclise illustrated this, one of the 
sweetest of Moore's poems. The snow seems to gleam 
in the cold moonlight and fair Eveleen's bower has 
an indistinct softness that one almost expects to see 
blown off like a mist by the sighing night 
breezes. 

But footprints in the snow tell tales of faithful as 
well as false love ! 

The mighty Charlemagne is gazing out of the 
palace window. The moon is up, and throws upon 
the floor the vast shadow of the gigantic Emperor 
who, clad in his simple otter-skin doublet, leans 
upon his sword, and with bent brows ponders over 
his plans of conquest. 

But if he is laying plans of conquest, in his 
daughter Emma's chamber, Eginhart is trying to 
discover a plan of flight. Long had the young 
secretary worshipped the Emperor's eldest child, 
and in time his constancy was rewarded by her love. 
Fearing the anger of Charlemagne, the lovers met 
only secretly at night, and this evening so wrapt 



FOOTPRINTS. 107 

were they in happy dreams that it was only when 
Eginhart strove to tear himself away from his 
beloved, that they perceived there had been a heavy 
fall of snow. 

What w r as to be done? To walk across the 
courtyard, would be to discover all, and would bring 
Eginhart to the scaffold. But when did woman's 
heart fail to aid the loved one ? With tottering 
feet, but unfailing faith and love and courage did 
the young princess bear her lover across the snow- 
covered court-yard. Ah ! those wavering little foot- 
prints — deep-impressed because of the dear burden ; 
if the snow melted in the next morning's sun, were' 
they ever forgotten by Eginhart ? 

From his window, Charlemagne saw all, and 
touched by the proof of their true love, he bestowed 
Emma's hand upon the happy secretary, dowering 
her with the rich province of the Odenwald. And 
at Erbach, they still show the tomb of those two 
faithful hearts ! 

Let us not forget the Indian, and his wonderful— 
almost superhuman — sagacity in following a trail. 
Often and often in the Last of the Mohicans, and 
the rest of that series, we have w T ondered at those 
swarthy savages, tracking the enemy with the blood- 
thirsty, untiring, undying perseverance of a slot 



108 FOOTPRINTS. 

hound; a trodden leaf, a bent blade of grass, a 
broken twig, show at a glance to their experienced 
eyes where the foot of a foe has fallen. 

Not long ago died Logan, the chief of the 
Omawhaws — the narrative of his fate was worthy of 
the pen of Fenirnore Cooper himself. 

While the tribe was out on its summer hunting 
expedition, a large band of Sioux — their natural 
enemies — was discovered camped near them. 

Logan at once sent his tribe back, as the odds were 
too great to risk a battle, while he himself stayed — 
alone — to mislead the foe, and give his people— who 
were told to conceal their trail as carefully as 
possible — time to escape. Off he galloped at full 
speed, reaching many miles off a spot from which 
he could see the encampment he had left — here he 
dismounted, and laid his materials for a fire, and led 
his horse round and round until the ground seemed 
to indicate a large body of warriors. 

This done, he set fire to the brushwood, and 
remounted. Before he rode off, he turned and saw 
in the distance the Sioux gathered around the real 
camp. Of course, they soon perceived the new fire, 
and without waiting to find the trail, made towards 
it at full speed. 

By the time they reached it, Logan had ridden 



FOOTPEINTS. 109 

on and lit a fresh beacon some distance further on : 
and seeing as they imagined the camping place 
deserted only recently, the Sioux galloped on to- 
wards the new one. Here they found all exactly 
the same as it was at the last, but growing sus- 
picious, they lit torches and examining the ground 
discovered that they had been misled by the courage 
and ingenuity of one man ; with loud yells, some of 
them began to follow the trail of Logan while others 
retraced their steps to the first camp to discover, if 
possible, the direction in which the Omawhaws had 
escaped. 

Logan knew when he saw the torches, that his 
plan was discovered, and nothing was left for him 
but to run for it. He knew, however, that his 
stratagem was successful in so far, that his tribe, 
were now beyond pursuit, so trusting to the speed of 
his horse, he bent his course homewards. 

But alas ! tracing him by his footsteps, on came the 
unwearying foe. Daylight was beginning to break, 
when, thinking himself out of danger, Logan slack- 
ened his speed, but only to see behind him his 
pursuers in the grey light of morning urging their 
sturdy mustangs along his trail. His wearied 
horse had begun already to show signs of 



110 FOOTPRINTS. 

giving out, when he arrived at a little ravine, where 
he met a girl drawing water from a brook, which 
ran through the valley. To her his tale was soon 
told, and with a pitying heart and noble, daring- 
ingenuity that would have done credit to the first 
lady in Europe, the Indian girl concealed him in a 
cave, and mounting his horse, rode on and taking 
advantage of the brook, managed to mislead the 
Sioux by a wrong trail. She then returned and 
giving Logan his horse, told him to ride 
home in safety, for his pursuers were thrown 
off his track. 

But, alas ! Fortune had determined to betray 
him ! As he crossed the brow of a hill, he 
was met by some of the Sioux returning 
from their unsuccessful pursuit of the Omaw- 
haws. 

Logan turned and fled, loading and firing as 
he went, and not a few of the Sioux braves bit the 
dust. At length, his worn-out horse stumbled and 
fell ; Logan had barely time to gain his feet before 
his pursuers were upon him. Even then, beset 
with " fearful odds," he died not alone, but 
like a knight of old Romance, made for himself 
a death-bed of his slaughtered foes. Poor fellow ! 



FOOTPRINTS. Ill 

he was the last of the rare brave Indian Chiefs, 
of whom we have often read in novels, but who were 
of late years scarce in real life. 

And so ends a sad tale of followed foot- 
prints ! 

Thus far we have been looking at the imprints of 
the deer- skin mocassin, of the naked sole of the 
Carib, the delicate chaussure of a German princess, 
the fur-trimmed, tasseFd boots of a false lord, or the 
iron-plated, spur-adorned foot of the poor mad 
noble Gentleman and Knight of La Mancha— but 
there are other footprints that we read of— and not 
unstained with blood horribly spilt ! The heavy 
nailed shoes of the murderer leave behind them 
around the scene of crime the clearly marked 
impressions that, pointing to the very gap where 
a few nails are wanting, give over the blood- 
stained wretch into the hands of justice. 

Eaugh ! it smells of blood ! it is too horrible to 
be talked of— this burly ruffian whose footprints in 
the garden, beneath the window, show how he 
watched the miserable old man putting away his 
store of money, ere he burst in, and took away the 
feeble, fading, flickering life that never injured him 
in word or deed. 

Oh ! cursed Love of Gold, are not thy footprints 



112 FOOTPRINTS. 

seared into the hearts of the living — oh ! too — too 
often ? 

Now the story which we have been all this time 
prologising, is a tale of the Love of Gold. 



"Ob, that he were here to write me down an ass !" 

"much ado about nothing." 

In the year of our Lord 185 — , the village of 
Skillington Minor, in the beautiful county of 
Devon, was blessed with a clerk and sexton, by 
name Keziah Bennet — yes, gentle reader, we repeat, 
Keziah Bennet ! 

When first he came into the world, great was the 
commotion in the house of the Bennets : all the 
old women of Skillington, not to mention a few from 
the surrounding villages, assembled at the clerk's 
house (clerkships are hereditary in the West), to 
determine upon a name, not only for our hero, but 
for his brother, the goodwife having presented her 
husband with twins, a circumstance which discon- 
certed that worthy soul no less than it did the aunt, 
who had prepared a pincushion to hail the arrival of 
the expected babe. Of course, the duality of the 



FOOTPKINTS. 113 

arrival necessitated a change of design, and a 
further outlay in minnikin pins ; and after all, the 
" S " added to make the sentence " Welcome, little 
strangerS," destroyed the balance of the pattern, 
and ran so close to the border as to betray the fact 
of the twins being a (shall we say "pleasant?") 
surprise. 

Had the clerk's wife read Shakspeare, she might 
have been content, on the " rose-with-any-other- 
name " theory, to call the new-comers Johns, or 
Roberts, or Billies— those common ante-fixes that 
flesh is heir to ; but, alas ! the extent of her 
dramatic experience went no farther than " The 
Monk, the Mask, and the Murderer ; or, the 
Haunted Hermit," performed by Richardson's 
company in Farmer Grist's barn ; and so the poor 
babe was doomed to a misnomer. 

After long consultation, Uzziah and Uriah were 
the chosen nominatives — the clerk asserting that, 
as he " belonged to the Church," his children 
ought to be scriptural. 

Over and over again were the names repeated — 
over and over again drummed into the head of the 
godmother, who was an elderly lady of not very 
strong mind, but of considerable possessions. Ru- 
mour whispered that it was because the old dame 



114 FOOTPRINTS. 

kept a stocking full of guineas, and had two houses 
of her own in Skillington, that the Bennets hunted 
up a relationship to her, and requested her offices as 
sponsor. 

The Sunday came : the christening breakfast 
began, the cloaks and hoods had been duly ad- 
mired, when the clerk was called away. The rector 
had been suddenly requested to do duty for his 
brother, who was ill, at a village some miles off, 
and Bennet was required to drive him over, as the 
worthy clergyman himself was not a son of Nimshi. 
This untoward occurrence rather disconcerted the 
christening party; but Bennet, as a clerk and a 
Christian, was bound to do his duty without a 
murmur — and he did it ! As he wound his com- 
forter for the last turn round his neck, he said, in 
an impressive tone of voice, to the godmother, 
"Remember, Goody — Uzziah and Uriah \" 

" Oh, yes — Huzziah and Buzziah !" said the old 
dame ; but, luckily for the rector, Bennet did not 
hear the mistake, or it might have shaken his 
allegiance. 

Now, in the absence of the regular clerk, Ziba 
Coggle, the village butchei', was accustomed to 
perform the responsive duties ; and accordingly, at 
afternoon service, the curate and he stood at the 



FOOTPRINTS, 115 

font, prepared to make Christians of the two little 
howling heathens who were borne down the aisle 
in all the bravery of white hoods and lace 
veils. 

Uzziah was christened properly by his appointed 
name ; but when our hero's turn came, the old 
godmother's memory failed her, and, after a short 
pause, she bolted out " Keziah \" Of course, 
neither curate nor clerk knew the sex of the child, 
and so, sad to relate, the poor boy was as irre- 
vocably tied to the female name as if he had 
married the daughter of Job, and from that day 
forth was called by no other title than Kizzy 
Bennet. 

It is needless to describe the fury of old Bennet, 
when he discovered one of his brace of boys trans- 
formed into a girl in the register. 

Suffice it to say, that his rage made him forget 
the stocking full of guineas and the two cottages 
in Skillington, and his reproaches and revilings 
were such, that when the old godmother died, she 
left neither the one nor the other to Keziah, whose 
brother Uzzy had not survived his teething. 

Thus godmother and brother, and, ere long, 
mother — died; nor did the father delay in follow- 
ing his wife : so " Jabez Bennet slept with his 



116 FOOTPRINTS. 

fathers, and Keziah, his son, amen'd in his 
stead \" 

One would think that a Certain Party, who is 
said to have an abundance of employment for idle 
hands, would have little business with a man of 
Keziah's industrious habits, and, moreover, with 
the clerk of a church ; but, alas ! even the highest 
ecclesiastical dignitaries have their temptations, so 
the humblest sexton may not hope to escape without 
his temptation. 

Christmas-Day had come in with a fall of snow, 
and the robins were hopping in the holly-trees, and 
trying, in the universal gaiety of the season, to get 
up sham berries with their red breasts. All the 
girls in the village, from Ann to Zilpah, had been 
kissed by all the lads, from Abel to Zachary, 
through all the permutations and combinations of 
the alphabet, a return of which kisses, for the 
benefit of census-lovers, could only be given in by 
the mistletoe. 

The bells had rung the people into church, 
although with rather irregular peals — " nee mirum," 
for the Big Bell was far from sober, and the Tenor 
ditto decidedly in a state of cyder. 

The service had been gone through with due 
choral accompaniments; the congregation — with 



F00TPE1NTS. 117 

the exception of those of the choir who had gone 
round carol-singing all the previous night, and were 
now comfortably dozing in the gallery— had been 
edified with a stirring sermon. At length, all the 
children and non-communicants having departed, 
Keziah, in all the rustling grandeur of a stuff gown, 
began to collect the offertory in a carved-oak alms- 
dish. 

Ah ! Keziah, Keziah! be not so proud; "let 
not him that putteth on his clerkly apparel boast 
as he that taketh it off." Thou shalt have more 
in thy pocket, and much on thy mind, when 
thou hangest up thy gown again on its peg in the 
vestry ! 

After the service had concluded, Keziah removed 
the plate and the white cloth; he emptied the 
alms-dish on the table before the rector, and after 
having wished that good clergyman a merry Christ- 
mas and a happy New Year, and receiving the same 
wish in return, he retired to the vestry to lock up 
the silver. 

The rector was gone, and Keziah was all alone ; 
the chalice and paten were in their places, and the 
alms-dish was about to follow, when something, 
glittering within it, caught the clerk's eye ! In a 
moment the cover was off, and there, fixed in a 



118 FOOTPRINTS. 

crack in the corner — in the trap laid for poor 
Kizzy's soul — gleamed a bright, shining half- 
crown. 

Was it the Old Serpent himself, or did the eye 
of King George the Fourth wink at the lost 
clerk ? 

Would it be missed ? 

" No/' said Avarice. " Who could tell that it 
had not been given to the rector V* 

" It is not honest, friend Keziah \" said Con- 
science ; but he spoke very low, and Avarice 
drowned his speech altogether by whistling, " I 
love my shilling, my jolly, jolly shilling !" 

" Besides/' suggested Hypocrisy, " it was in- 
tended to do good, and it will benefit you as much 
as any one !" 

"Do you remember, Kizzy, old boy \" whis- 
pered Comfort, "those rare woollen socks in 
Mother Muggles's window, ticketed ' tenpence ?' " 

"Thirty pence is two-and-sixpence," broke in 
Arithmetic ; " three tens are thirty \" 

" Three pairs of woollen socks," continued Com- 
fort. " One pair every week, and one to keep for 
Sundays only. They will cherish thy lean shanks, 
old fellow !" 

And so, one after another, whispered the evil 



FOOTPRINTS. 119 

passions of Keziah Bennet, until, at last, Con- 
science was elbowed out of the council. Four 
times did Keziah unbutton his pocket, and four 
times did he half withdraw the coin ; but Avarice 
and his backers prospered, and the clerk buttoned 
his pocket up once more, and strode out of the 
vestry with the price of his soul in the right-hand 
pocket of his trowsers ; and so Keziah Bennet be- 
came a son of perdition. 

The next morning, Keziah hurried off to 
Muggles's warehouse; the purchase was quickly 
effected, and, with the stockings under his arm, he 
was soon trudging back through the snow to his 
own dwelling. 

Why did Keziah, as he reached his door, drop 
his parcel in the snow ? why did his teeth chatter, 
and his tongue refuse to utter even the accus- 
tomed " Lord have mercy upon us " of the 
Litany ? 

Poor Keziah ! his sleep had been troubled— his 
dreams had been awful ! Demons with open-work 
carved-oak faces, like the alms-box lid, danced 
around him, while three large fiends in woollen 
stockings, gartered with vipers, scooped out his 
eyes, and replaced them by two burning hot George 
the Fourth half-crowns. 



120 FOOTPRINTS. 

Unrefreshed by such slumbers, his mind was in 
no fit state to receive with firmness the shock it 
met with now. All round the cottage, printed in 
the snow, were the impressions of hoofs ! 

Down on his knees in terror dropped Keziah ; 
but instantly fearing that he might be seen and 
suspected (how thin-skinned guilt is !), he fell 
upon all-fours, as if to examine the awful 
marks. 

Too plainly, here and there, his fearful eyes 
saw traces as though the hoof had been 
cloven ! 

" Pshaw ! it's a donkey \" he murmured, trying 
to look brave ; but experience told him that a 
donkey's track would lead somewhither, while 
these footprints seemed to have neither beginning 
nor end. 

With his hair erect on his head, his teeth 
chattering, and his knees trembling, Keziah 
hurried in, and fell in a swoon on his bed. 

When he recovered, he saw before him the 
stockings for which he had bartered his im- 
mortal soul, lying arranged in pairs on the 
table. 

In agony and terror did Keziah pass the day, 
and he was truly delighted when his old friend, 



FOOTPRINTS. 121 

Zachary Drew, the carpenter, dropped in to smoke 
a pipe with him. 

Long did he keep him, and generously did he 
entertain him. 

Zachary little dreamt the real reason of Keziah's 
hospitality, when the old fellow brought out a 
bottle of cyder wine, and begged him to stay and 
make a night of it. 

Late at night Drew departed; but before he 
went, he put his host to bed. Now, Drew was 
barely capable, as will be seen, of doing that kind 
office for himself ; however, he managed to put on 
Keziah's night garments all right, with the excep- 
tion of the night-cap; this had fallen upon the 
ground, and, after one or two vain lurches to 
recover it, the carpenter was compelled to relin- 
quish the design. In lieu of his usual head-gear, 
therefore, he wrapped up Bennetts head in the 
identical woollen stockings, which the clerk had 
laid on the chest of drawers. 

This done, he wished Keziah " gooright," and 
received the reply that he was a "jol? ole half- 
crown," and staggered home. 

After a slight search of an hour or so, Zachary 
discovered the latch, and reeled up-stairs, where he 
found his rushlight burning. Carefully did he fold 



122 FOOTPRINTS. 

up the candle, and lay it in the drawer, and 
strenuously did he blow at his Sunday collar, as 
it lay on the table, in the vain hope of extinguish- 
ing it. With an unsteady hand did he put his 
boots in the basin, and throw the water-jug down 
the stairs into the kitchen to be blacked in the 
morning by his work-boy. Almost before the 
jug shivered on the stones below, Drew's eyes 
had closed, and he sunk fast asleep on the floor, 
with his head in the nightshade, for the rush- 
light of which he had just before so carefully 
provided. 

The next morning Keziah opened his eyes to 
the consciousness of a splitting head-ache; he 
raised his hand instinctively to his forehead, but 
withdrew it instantly, as if an adder had bit him. 
He sprang up wildly in the bed, and, scattered 
by the sudden motion, the six individual stockings 
fell in a shower around him upon the counter- 
pane. 

Those stockings were doomed to haunt him. 
Demon hands (he thought) had laid them out on 
his table during his swoon. Demon hands had 
piled them upon his sleeping head, until their 
weight — the weight of sin— had racked his throb- 
bing temples. 



FOOTPRINTS. 123 

With a creeping, shivering dread he thrust first 
one foot and then the other into a pair of the 
awful leg-casings; but when once they were on, 
and he had had a pull of brandy, he began to 
pluck up courage, and w r as almost himself when he 
issued from his cottage door. Alas ! it was only 
to discover fresh traces of the koof'd— perchance 
horn'd — unearthly visitor of the preceding night. 
Keziah Bennet trembled in his woollen stock- 
ings ! 

Human courage could bear no more : the clerk 
rushed into his house again, and fell upon his 
knees, praying far more earnestly and fervently 
than he had ever done with the yellow fringe 
of the reading-desk hangings tickling his bald 
head. 

In less than ten minutes Mrs. Muggles was 
summoned into the shop by the tinkling of the bell 
affixed to the door. 

There stood Bennet, looking sheepish and miser- 
able, nor did his confusion decrease when he ex- 
plained the reason of his visit. 

"Will you — that is — I— there's — oh — I — I — I 
paid half-a-crown yesterday for those—" (His lips 
refused to name those terrible stockings). 

" Woollen stockings," suggested Mrs. Muggles, 
g 2 



124 FOOTPRINTS. 

unable to account for Kezialr's tremor — although her 
conscience accused her of the quantity of cotton in 
the so-called woollen articles. 

"Yes — ah— well— I — I — Fve a liking for that 
half-crown — here's another— please would you look 
in the till— would you mind letting me have it 



Of course, Mrs. Muggles did not mind, and the 
till was speedily emptied on the counter. You 
may be sure no voice whispered to Keziah to 
abstract any of the silver now, though it might 
have been easily done, for Mrs. Muggles had 
unbounded confidence in the clerk. 

It did not take very long to discover the 
coin. To Bennet's eyes, the demoniacal medal 
to give a wink of diabolical mean- 



"It looks very like a bad 'un," remarked 
the shopkeeper as she swept the money back 
into the till. 

"It is a bad '\m," ejaculated Keziah, although 
with a deeper meaning, and holding the terrible 
thing as gingerly as if it were burning hot, he 
turned and left the shop. 

It so happened, luckily for the clerk, that, on the 
previous day, the rector had been away on a Christ- 



FOOTPRINTS. 125 

mas visit, and had not long returned, when Bennet 
called to restore the money that had nearly cost him 
so much. He was ushered into the study, 
where he soon told how he had found the half- 
crown ; suppressing, of course, the story of his temp- 
tation and fall, which the worthy pastor did not for 
a moment dream of. 

As the latter was going to lock the money up in 
his desk, he let it by accident slip from his fingers. 
It came down upon the table with a dull 
leaden thump, very different from the clear ringing 
sound of silver ! 

" Why, bless my soul \" exclaimed the parson, " it 
is a bad one — a counterfeit, Keziah ! I trust it 
was given accidentally : I hope no one is so 
wicked and blasphemous as to do such a thing 
intentionally V 

"Pure wickedness, I'm afraid, sir !" moaned the 
clerk, as he thought how the money had only been 
sent to destroy him. 

" Don't be uncharitable, Keziah ! Don't be 
uncharitable— your own good character is not a 
warrant for crying out upon others. We all 
want a little charity shown us sometimes." 

Keziah winced at this unintentional thrust, 
and was not at all sorry to leave the room. When 



126 FOOTPRINTS. 

he reached home, the first thing he did, was to cast 
the six stockings— the bait of the Evil One— into the 
fire. Awful was the stench that accompanied this 
holocaust, and in it Keziah fancied he detected a 
strong smack of sulphureous vapour. 

The same night, Keziah, sitting by his fire, dozed 
off into a quiet sleep— for the last two nights had 
been too troubled to give him any real rest. He 
woke with a start as the clock struck twelve ; the 
candle had burnt down into its socket, and the last 
curl of smoke was ascending from the wick : but the 
moon was shining brightly, and Keziah had just 
made up his mind for economical reasons to 
retire to bed by its light, when he saw a strange 
black shadow projected on the blind. He could 
distinguish a head, and from it rose two — what? 
Heaven help the poor lost creature, surely they were 
not horns ! 

The door rattled— the latch clicked, and above 
the loud beating of his own heart, Keziah could 
hear the breathing of that fearful visitant ! He 
remembered that, contrary to his usual custom, he 
had forgotten to slide the bolt ; the Devil— it could 
be none but he — would enter and carry him off 
bodily ! 

Shaking in every limb, his heart thumping 




[to pace page 127. 



FOOTPRINTS. 1£7 

like a sledge-hammer, he tottered across the floor ; 
" there might yet be time to shoot the bolt \" 
But barely had he got half way, when the door 
burst open, and with a loud yell, Keziah Bennet 
fell faintiug at the feet of — an ass ! 

Yes, gentle reader, the mysterious marks were the 
footprints of a little orphan jackass, that had been 
accustomed every night to regale himself on 
Keziah's brocoli, but as no snow had fallen before 
Christmas day, his former visits were unnoticed. The 
projecting thatch had protected the marks round the 
house under the eaves, while the prints without 
had been obliterated by succeeding falls, and as the 
weather was particularly calm, there was no wind 
to make the snow drift. 

The fact of the stockings being nnfolded and 
laid on the table is as easily explained. Old Polly 
Draggle one of the village crones saw, as she went 
by, the parcel lying at Keziah's door. She carried 
it in, and- seeing the clerk, as she supposed, in a 
drunken doze, she satisfied her womanly failing — 
curiosity — by opening the packet, and examining its 
contents. 

And this is the True and Authentic Account of 
one appearance of the Devil in Devonshire ! 

In the winter, of what various conjectures were 



128 FOOTPRINTS. 

raised as to the cause of the mysterious footprints 
near the Exe. 

Rats, Mice, Kangaroos, Birds, and Badgers all 
came in turn to be proposed as the origin. 

Some suggested they were the tracks of a don- 
key, but others immediately knocked the suggestion 
on the head by saying the marks were not like 
those of an ass. Probably these Dogmatic Dog- 
berries were right, especially as they had the 
opportunity of judging from self-experience — yet we 
feel tempted to say with Conrade, " Away, you are 
an ass — you are an ass !" 

Depend upon it, however, that — although not 
exactly of the Fakenham species we have just 
related — all the stories of the Devil in Devonshire 
were, somehow or other, intimately connected 
with asses ! 



ONLY A FLOWER. 

The flower Thou gavest me from Thine hair,- 
That single rose that, pale and white, 
Gleamed 'mid Thy tresses like a star, 
Or one lone snow-flake in the night — 

That rose, Love, by Thy sweetness taught 
All fairest blossoms to eclipse, 
Its excellence of perfume caught 
By hanging near those perfect lips ! 

And now, with all its hundred leaves, 
That flower is a book to me, 
Whose every page and every word 
Is speaking still of only Thee. 

It tells me Nature gave it birth, 
To be a type, my Love, of Thee — 
The fairest Flower of the earth — 
And Thy remembrance unto me. 

G 3 



130 ONLY A FLOWEE. 

It tells me that the snowy leaves, 
Which round about its bosom fold, 
Conceal beneath their purity 
A heart — like Thine, Love, — all of gold 

And how — Thy beauty's type beside, 
So modestly, so sweetly worn — 
The bright green leaves a flower hide, 
Like Thy pure heart, without a thorn ! 

That rose amid Thy raven locks 
In beauty bloomed, till laid aside — 
Like my sad heart when Thou art gone- 
It withered silently — and died ! 

Yet — for because it died for Thee, 
Amid Thy night-like tresses, Sweet, 
Upon my heart that rose shall be 
Until that heart shall cease to beat ! 



THE SPARKLING WATERS. 

Adown — adown, 
Down to the rolling sea 
The streamlet's waters run 
With noisy glee ! 

On — ever on, 

On to the rocky steep 

The sparkling wavelets flow, 

Then downward leap. 

East — ever fast 
Over the rocky edge 
Down leaps the foaming tide 
From ledge to ledge ! 

Why — tell me why 
So swiftly on ye flee ? 
Bright waters, tell me why 
Ye seek the sea ? 



132 THE SPARKLING WATERS. 

Why, alas ! why 
Would ye so soon pass by, 
And, falling in the sea, 
Forgotten— die ? 




THE TWO BATTLE FIELDS. 



stood by the bank of a streamlet, 

Not far from its mossy source, 

Where with murmured delight it trembled 

Down its sloping and winding course. 



The water was clear and gleaming, 
And each drop of the sparkling spray 
On the grasses that fringed its margin 
Like a glittering diamond lay. 

But as slowly I wandered, watching 
The weeds in its shallow bed, 
A sod fell into the streamlet, 
Detached by my careless tread. 

And where with its roots and fibres 
It had broken away the sward, 
Half-hidden in earth I discovered 
The hilt of a shattered sword. 



134 THE TWO BATTLE FIELDS. 

Then vanished the scene around me. 
The streamlet ran clear no more, 
And the grasses that fringed its margin 
"Were trampled and stained with gore. 

And the shouts and the din of battle 
On my hearing began to rise, 
And the folds of the hostile banners 
Waved proudly before mine eyes. 

The plumes in the wind were dancing, 
The sabres were flashing bright, 
And thus with the eye of fancy 
Beheld I the Sedgmoor fight ! 

No thought had I of the battle, 
Or the blood that of yore was spilt, 
Till my careless foot discovered 
That broken and rusted hilt : 

For the streamlet so gently murmured, 
And the grass was so fresh and green, 
That there rose at my heart no whisper 
To tell of that fearful scene ! 



And I know a heart that is tranquil, 
Speaking praises and thanks alway, 
From the rise of the rosy morning 
Till the soft-tinted close of day ! 



THE TWO BATTLE FIELDS. 135 

And it does little deeds of kindness 
With such soul-cheering happiness, 
You would think that by hear-say only 
It knew of the world's distress. 

And save when the jarring heart-string 
Is touched by a heedless word, 
You never would dream that Sorrow 
Had broken a single chord. 

But a word will recall the struggle 
That scathed it in days of yore, 
When the fountain of Youth in that bosom 
Was darkened for evermore. 

And that seemingly -tranquil bosom 
By the traces revealed unsought 
We know was the field, where aforetime 
A Battle of Life was fought ! 



WHITE WINGS. 

At niy feet the Ocean surges 
With its never-ceasing roar — 
Singing -war-songs, chanting dirges— 
Evermore — ah, evermore ! 

All the sea is wild commotion — 
All its breakers white as shrouds : 
While, afar across the ocean, 
Spreads the shadow of the clouds. 

But I know the sun is beaming, 
For — bejond that shadow dark — 
I can see his radiance gleaming 
In some distant white-wing'd bark. 

Thus the Ocean of To-Morrow 
Breaks upon Life's rocky shore, 
With its turmoil — with its sorrow — 
Evermore — ah, evermore ! 



WHITE WINGS. 137 



Flowing, ebbing — ebbing, flowing, 
Its emotions cbange and glide, 
Fears of unknown trouble throwing 
Solemn shadows o'er the tide. 

But beyond — in farthest distance, 
Far beyond all earthly things, 
We can see the New Existence 
In the gleam of angel-wings. 

Angel-wings of the departed, 
Bright with rays of fairer skies, 
Are revealed to the true-hearted, 
Through the Spirit's purer eyes. 



PANURGUS PEBBLES. 

A LITTLE OF EVERYTHING IS NOTHING OF ANYTHING. 

A JACK-of-all-trades and master of none was 
Panurgus Pebbles : from the birchen tingle of boy- 
hood to the mental pains of man's estate his 
shallow versatility was his bane : from the first kick 
and crow in long clothes to the silent rigidity in the 
shroud, his life, a patchwork harlequin, was 
ever slapping and flapping him. His mind was 
like Jacques' motley fool, or rather like a kaleid- 
oscope—yet wanted reflection— the smoked glasses 
in that instrument, that by doubling the confused 
mass of glass splinters, &c, changes disorder into a 
" pattern of neatness." 

When Pebbles picked up his scraps of know- 
ledge, Heaven only knows ! Poekilus Pigment, my 



PANURGUS PEBBLES. 139 

artist friend, has ever beside bis easel a spare 
canvass whereon be bestows at random the dabs of 
colour that remain in his brush, while he is 
working up his great picture for the Academy. 
On this canvass, upon the foundation thus laid, 
he afterwards depicts such a subject as the 
prevailing tints may suggest. Can it be that 
Nature, when supplying the crania of a number of 
mortals with brains of different tendencies, casts 
into the head of Pebbles the superabundant cerebral 
scraps. 

Panurgus was the son of an old Squire, whose 
spouse was a fashionable Lady. 

The father took him out for a ride ; 

The mother sent him to school ; 

The paternal care taught him to sing, " Tally 
ho!" 

The maternal drilled him in the " Busy Bee ;" 

The Squire declared that his son should be "a 
man, not a milksop V 

The lady said hers should be " a gentleman, not 
a stable-boy." 

Between the two influences, Panurgus got off 
easily. If he did not go to school his father would 
screen him from his merited punishment; if he 
refused to ride a spirited horse his mother shielded 



140 PANURGUS PEBBLES. 

him from his father's wrath ; if he failed in the 
melody of " Tally ho \" the lady would express her 
pleasure that he did not take a liking to " a song 
that was not fitted for polite society." To which 
the squire retorted by observing— " that as to the 
matter of that, he did not think Dr. Watts was 
much better. How about that line — 

" ' Abroad in the meadows to see the young lambs 
Go sporting about by the side of their ' 

A proper word truly to be put in the mouths of 
children \" 

So far his piebald breeding and disposition did 
our hero no harm — at least no present harm— but 
in after years the effects of these two counter- 
influences came upon him. 

It was not only in his studies that our hero 
shone superficially. Was there a game of cricket 
proposed, who so ready as Pebbles to make one of a 
side ? But without that genuine love of the sport, 
which would have sustained him during his fielding, 
he soon got tired, and the boys, knowing his 
failing, always sent him in last, being sure that his 
wickets once down, Pebbles would slink off to some 
other pastime. Not that he was a great loss, for 



PANURGUS PEBBLES. 141 

like all who do not enter into the spirit of the game 
con amove, he was a slovenly player, and went 
among the cricket-lovers by the soubriquet of 
Butter-fingers ; while among the boating com- 
munity (for the school was near the river Weir and 
the boys had a whole fleet of " dingies" on it) he 
was known as Crab Pebbles — a title derived from 
his frequent successes in catching those Crustacea 
while rowing. To the uninitiated we will explain ! 
He who would capture a crab must seat himself in 
a rowing boat, and taking an oar pull it scientifically 
until the vessel gets a swift onward motion, by 
seamen entitled " head-way " When this is 
accomplished let our friend turn his oar over 
slightly and try to lift it out of the water straight. 
There is a slight splash — a jerk — and the operator 
finds the handle of his oar in his abdominal region, 
and almost before he can wink, his head descends 
and his heels fly up, and the experiment is con- 
cluded—the crab is caught ! 

Poor Pebbles ! his heels were oftener in the air 
than his scull in the water ; for he had another way 
of " capturing cancers," namely by never putting 
his oar in the water at all, merely skimming it along 
the surface, so that, air not offering the same 
resistance as water, the force of his own stroke shot 



142 PANURGUS PEBBLES. 

poor Pebbles into the lap of his neighbour on the 
next thwart. This evolution was called by the boys 
" Pebbles's pull," a stroke of which (as Featherwell, 
the best oar in the school averred) " one half was 
in the air and the other half out of the water." 

Then what disasters did not Panurgus get iuto, 
when, with the bag of paper shreds, the hare— one 
of the best runners in the school — set off across 
country ! About twenty minutes after, the pack 
would start helter skelter, over hedge and ditch, 
where the paper was thickly scattered ; or wandering 
at fault over a ploughed field to recover the scent. 
Some time or other in the day was sure to see 
Panurgus pounded in a field, or up to his neck in a 
ditch, or stuck head-downward in a hedge, as if 
measuring the wide expanse of heaven with his 
legs in lieu of compasses. But in spite of all this, 
Panurgus would often be in at the death. His 
plan was to climb a high tree, and try to spy out 
the hare in the distance, or if he could not see him, 
to watch the direction in which the hounds were 
going, and draw his conclusions therefrom. He 
knew that the hare was sure to make for some 
farmei*'s house, where he was known, or else to some 
little village ale-house (for of course the ushers 
were not "mighty hunters," and did not join in 



PANURGUS PEBBLES. 143 

hare and hounds), and settling from the running 
where the hare was likely to be, he would set off by 
the road, and generally fell in with the pack not far 
from the hare's form (generally a wooden one, on 
which stood a pewter, whence the hare drank 
refreshment in the shape of beer). 

In due course of time Panurgus left Bedleigh to 
enter at the University. During his stay at school 
what prizes had he gained ? None ! He was second 
or third in several classes — poor Jack-of- all-trades 
— and the sprinkling of knowledge that he had of 
everything in general, would, if it had been applied 
to one thing in particular, have gained him a re- 
ward ; but no : it was fated that Pebbles should be 
a little of everything, and nothing of anything, and 
so he was ! 

At College he met several of his old school- 
fellows, who had left Bedleigh before him. "Of 
course among so many old companions Pebbles 
did not lack for friends," say you. But he 
did! 

" I say, Featherwell," said Coxon of Brasenose, 
" what sort of a fellow is Pebbles of St. Mark's ; he 
was at school with you, wasn't he ?" 

" Humph ! Yes," replies Featherwell, now Cap- 
tain of the 0. U. B. C, and immensely popular 



144 PANTJRGUS PEBBLES. 

among the boating men. " Awful muff ! Can't 
pull two strokes without catching as many crabs ; 
he'd upset the veriest tub on the river." 

And so the subject is dropped; — and Panurgus 
too ! 

Four gownsmen are strolling along the High- 
street when our hero passes. 

"That's an old Bedleigh man/' says one of the 
quartette. " Horrid stick \" grunts Bales, the Sec. 
of the St. Mark's Coll. Cricket Club. " He can't 
handle his bat a bit. I didn't know anything of 
him at school." 

" He comes from our part of the world/' says 
Snaffle of Merton. " I have seen him out with the 
governor's hounds : he funked at the first hedge, 
and I never saw him again !" 

" Look at his dwass !" drawls the elegant Pulker. 
" One would think he — aw— dwassed himself with 
a knife and fawk — aw. Whan he was at school 
he always had five patches about his person ; two — 
aw — that he knelt on ; two — aw — that he leant on, 
and one — aw— that he sat on — aw !" 

Poor Pebbles — had you only entered heart and 
soul into one pursuit at school, how different had 
your reception been ! If you had given your at- 
tention to aquatics, how proudly would Featherwell 



PANTJRGTJS PEBBLES. 145 

have introduced you to the University eight ! Ah — 
those crabs — truly cancers that ate away your popu- 
larity ! If you had been a cricketer, Bales would 
have been proud of you;— had you given your 
attention to your toilette, Pulker would have 
honoured you with his arm down the Broad-walk 
on Show Sunday ; had you been a hard worker 
or prizeman at school, Mugger and Grind, of 
Balliol, would have hailed you with joy, and have 
proposed and seconded you at the Union. But 
no; Jack-of-all-trades and master of none was thy 
character, and between the various stools we have 
mentioned earnest thou to the ground, oh Pebbles ! 
Nay, man, never grumble — thy betters have been 
so tilted up before thee. These stools of thine are 
but humble joint-stools— three-legged wooden stools 
— lowly ones; but thy betters have fallen from 
higher. Did not Lord Thistledown strive to keep 
his balance and obtain office with Conservative and 
Liberal ? When, lo ! away glided the two stools, and 
down came my Lord upon the floor of the House, 
amid peals of " inextinguishable laughter V Nay, 
more, when mighty nations were at variance, have 
not certain little petty, pettifogging Kinglings 
striven to appear neutral, and to balance between 
the contending parties ? And have not they had 



146 PANUftGUS PEBBLES. 

their fall, or will they not soon ? Aye, Panurgus, 
and therefore bless thy stars that thou didst 
fall from a joint-stool instead of a lofty throne ! 

But to return to our story. 

After a short time Pebbles began to make friends 
in his college, and before long became a popular 
man, because he was a useful man ! Was a man 
wanted to make up an eleven at short notice, Bales 
was sure to apply to Pebbles. Was a man in the 
Eight or Torpid laid up for a time, who should 
pull in his place but Pebbles ? Did the Debating 
Society wish to give a supper, whose rooms 
should they borrow but Pebbles' ? And so 
Pebbles was popular, and hugged himself with 
the idea that he was liked for himself, and was 
therefore all the more ready to help Bales, or 
Featherwell, or De Bates (the President of the last- 
named Society) on an emergency. 

So time went on, and Pebbles got through his 
" Little Go," as it was called then, in those happy 
days when (contradiction though it seem) the 
examinations were easier, because they were without 
Moderations. 

Pebbles, we say, got through his "Little Go/' 
but when he went in for his " Great Ditto," we are 
sorry to say that, judging from his superficial know- 



. PANUKGUS PEBBLES. 147 

ledge of all his subjects, that Panurgus had not 
done his duty iu reading for the examination (a 
conjecture in which they were not far wrong) the 
examiners gave into the hands of the Clerk of the 
Schools no testamur for Mr. Pebbles of St. Mark's. 

Pebbles was plucked! They call it ploughed 
now, but the sensations after the operation are, we 
believe, the same. They consist, we are told, of a 
kind of desire to meet the examiners in a blind 
alley some dark night — a conviction that they 
have conspired to cheat you, and a general 
intense disgust of everybody and everything in the 
world. 

Pebbles was plucked ! And no sooner was it 
whispered in Oxford, than the trades-people began 
to drop in for their pickings, and they were no 
slight ones ! With his usual motley disposition, 
Panurgus had dabbled in all the pursuits and 
amusements of a University Life. 

His rooms were hung with proofs- bef ore-letters, 
that vied in cost (although they were, in a pictorial 
point of view, not very valuable) with the choice 
engravings of Burin, the great; amateur artist of St. 
Mark's. His Madonnas, and Oak Crosses, and 
Saints, excited the envy of fteredos of Oriel ; while 
Snaffle, of Merton, did not turn out in a better 
h 2 



148 PANURGUS PEBBLES. 

pink or brighter boots than Pebbles, although the 
latter seldom did more than ride to the meet and 
back. 

Peatherwell admired Panurgus's gig, as she 
floated at her moorings by the barge, and he vowed 
she was well worth the money, much as it was, at 
which she was valued. De Villiers, of Ch. Ch., 
had not more costly furniture than our hero, 
whose rooms nevertheless were a consummation of 
bad taste. Bookstall, of Balliol, did not lay out 
more on his library than Pebbles, whose numerous 
volumes were merely costly rubbish notwithstand- 
ing. In short, as Jack-of-all- trades had he set up 
in Oxford, and no small sum did it cost him to 
purchase his stock, so that when he came to 
survey his position, he found himself considerably in 
debt, and without a testamur. In disgust and 
despair he took his name off the College books, and 
returned home. 

The Squire, after a great deal of storming, paid 
his son's debts, remarking to his wife, "Well, 
Mistress Pebbles, I always said that Watts's hymns 
would do the boy no good— 

" ' In books, and work, and healthful play, 
May my first hours be past, 



PAanmGUS pebbles. 149 

That I may give for every day 
A good account at last.' 



A good account — by Jove, ma'am — he's brought 
me plenty of accounts to pay for his ' books, and 
work, and healthful play.' " 

" Pebbles, my dear, you are profane \" was all 
the poor lady could say. To send Panurgus to 
College had been her pet scheme, for she wanted 
her son to be an accomplished gentleman. The 
old Squire, on the other hand, had opposed it, 
saying that he never went to College, nor his 
father before him, yet they made good Squires 
without it, and why should not Panurgus; so, 
that with the exception of the bills, he was not 
greatly vexed at our hero's failure at Oxford. But 
he did not live long to be either vexed or jsleased 
at anything ; for the next year Panurgus saw him 
laid in the family vault at Bedleigh Minster ; and 
not long after, the mother followed him. 

So Pebbles came into his property, not a little 
lessened by the payment of his debts, for many a 
patriarchal elm and many an ancient oak went into 
the pockets of the tradesmen in the shape of cheques 
and bank notes. Not a few old trees, that, standing 
in the Park, had seen generations of Pebbles carried 



150 PANURGTJS PEBBLES. 

to christening, bringing home brides, borne slowly 
forth to burial, felt with a shudder through all their 
limbs and leaves and fibres, the edge of the ringing 
axe, and bowing, rending, falling with a sudden, 
sullen crash, were borne far away to do battle with 
the stormy seas, or to rot and crumble away in the 
rich black church -yard mould. But they were soon 
followed by more, for poor Pebbles was so full of 
new plans for managing his estate that, like the 
Irishman who spent his last half-crown to buy a 
purse to put it in, he sold his acres to pay for the 
improvements he had made in them, and what is 
more, sold them for less, because of those very 
identical so-called improvements. His tenants left 
him because he insisted on their planting cabbages 
and celery instead of potatoes — a crop, he said, that 
was sure to fail. His farmers gave up their farms 
because he meddled with their plans, and burnt 
the fields to improve the soil, until he converted all 
the land into a large desert of brick dust. But, 
worst of all, he had dabbled in railway speculation, 
and so at last came a crash, and the Jews got hold 
of the Pebbles property. 

Then what changes took place ! 

The suit of armour that Sir Peregrine Pebbles 
had worn at Agincourt re-appeared in Fitzroy- street, 



PANU11GUS PEBBLES. 151 

in the studio of Pcekilus Pigment, and its portrait 
was in the Academy, a.d. 18 — , in that celebrated 
artist's picture of the Battle of Otterboume, wherein 
it figured down in front, with Earl Percy inside 
it. 

The old portraits of the Pebbleses of antiquity 
were carried away to Wardour- street, whence they 
were removed to the suburban villa of Higgins, the 
retired grocer, at which place they figured as the 
Higginses of antiquity. 

And so the Israelites spoiled the Egyptians. 
Over the sea to Boulogne went Pebbles, there to 
consider what was next to be done. Was he fitted 
for any profession or trade ? We fear not. Did 
he imagine himself fit for any. Of course he did, 
—there was nothing in the world that, for the 
short space of perhaps an hour, he did not think 
his special vocation. Like Shakespeare's Weaver, 
he wanted to be Pyramus and Thisbe, and Lion 
and Wall, but was only Moonshine — all Moonshine ! 
But still he tried all ; like that aristocratic weather- 
cock Villiers, he 

" Was everything by turns, and nothing long." 

Pebbles was wandering on the beach at Bou- 
logne, and turning over in his mind the various 



152 PANURGUS PEBBLES. 

modes of making a living, when some one touched 
him on the shoulder, and turning round, he saw a 
little jovial-looking" parson. 

" Why, Pebbles/ - ' exclaimed Bales, for he it was, 
" in the dumps ? What's the matter ? Stumps 
down, or run out, eh ?" For be it known, that 
Bales still retained his love for the " manly game/'' 
and he set up the boys of his village with bats, 
balls, and stumps, much to the delight of the 
farmers, who found that when the lads were better 
employed, they did not rob orchards or hen-houses 
so often. His cricket-mania had lost him the good 
opinion of the two Misses Hassock, for he once 
ventured to express his belief that in manufacturing 
towns and mining districts it would be a good plan 
to allow the men and boys a game at cricket on 
Saint's Days. 

In answer to Bales' inquiry, our hero told him 
his story. The little ecclesiastic was touched, for 
he knew Pebbles' old failing ; it may be his con- 
science smote him for the way in which he had 
made Panurgus useful in the old college days. 
" Cheer up, old fellow," he exclaimed, " what if 
you are bowled out once, you must have another 
innings ! — and you mustn't hit so wild, — stick to 
one thing, and work hard at it ; don't try to do 



PAXURGUS PEBBLES. 153 

everything. A Jack-of-all-trades is master of none, 
you know j you don't often meet with a good bat 
who is worth much at wicket-keeping, or a good 
bowler who gets the score. In the meantime, old 
fellow, let me have the pleasure of lending an old 
college-mate some of the needful \" 

Pebbles seemed inclined to refuse the bank note 
which he offered him. " Pshaw V he continued, 
" it's only a loan, you can pay me when you get a 
catch. By the bye, I hope you are a better hand 
at it than you were when you missed that splendid 
catch ; don't you remember — when we played the 
Trinity eleven ?" and so they walked on, talking 
of old times and companions, and before they parted 
Bales had promised to get our hero a tutorship in a 
French family. This he did, and you would fancy 
that Pebbles was at length settled down, at least 
for a time; but no, his fate was inexorable, and so 
poor Panurgus at length fell a victim to it. 

A year after the last mentioned event I was at 
Boulogne on business, when the waitress — I believe 
they call them " filles " in France — of a little 
auberge, came to request my presence at the bed- 
side of a " compatriot." I followed her to the 
inn, and then what the French call monter'd en 
haut, and there, in a miserable garret, I found 
h 3 



154 PANTJKGUS PEBBLES. 

Panurgus Pebbles shivering upon a miserable 
pallet, evidently on the verge of death. I hurried 
off immediately, and called upon an eminent Eng- 
lish physician who was staying in the place, and 
returned with him as soon as possible. 

Too late — when we arrived, poor Pebbles was 
dead ! 

How he came to leave the French family I do 
not know ; probably he thought he had discovered 
something that was exactly suited to him, as he 
fancied, and so threw up a good situation to grasp 
after a shadow. He had not been at the auberge 
long before he was taken seriously ill, and, poor 
dabbler in all things, he had consulted Dr. Vyolant 
Remmedie and Professor Hydrus Vasser, a disciple 
of Preissnitz. The latter recommended wet blankets, 
the former prescribed calomel ; and between the two 
stools, as he had often done before, Pebbles fell to 
ground — nay, beneath it. 

He sleeps in a little churchyard near Boulogne. 
Featherwell and I visited the place last vacation. 
It was a bright summer's day, and the shade of the 
tower lay clearly defined across the grass, and the 
shadow of the weathercock seemed, as if in mockery, 
to rest upon Pebbles'" grave. 

" Man is but a vane shadow," said Featherwell ; 



PANURGUS PEBBLES. 155 

and so we turned away and left him to sleep under 
the head-stone, with the simple inscription — 

Hie Jacet, 
Panuegus Pebbles. 



BETTER ! 

Better to die on the Battle Plain — 

To die for our native land, 

Than to live until Time on our youthful prime 

Hath laid his long, bony hand. 

Better to die when we think that One 
Will weep and lament our falling, 
Than to live till she prove untrue to her Love, 
And the Past is beyond recalling. 

Better to die on the Battle Plain, 

And fall in the arms of Glory, 

Than to live till each breath is a painful death, 

And our Love but an idle story ! 



DON RODEBICK. 

After the battle of Guadalete, which decided 
the fate of the Goths in Spain, the body of Don 
Roderick was not discovered, and for a long time 
after the Spanish peasants believed that he would 
some day reappear to assist them in expelling the 
Moors. 

i. 
Lay the sword beneath the hearth, . 
And lay the spear beside. 
And cover them with stones and earth, 
For, weal or woe betide, 
We wait Don Roderick's return, 
When Freedom's beacon fires shall burn ! 



Hide the corslet 'neath the roof, 
The shield within the wall ; 



158 DON RODERICK. 

The moment is not far aloof 
When we shall need them all — 
When all the vine-clad hills of Spain 
Shall echo to onr shonts again ! 

in. 
Lay the greaves beneath the sod, 
Hide all your arms away ; 
And earnestly beseech our God 
To hasten on the day, 
When far and wide our shout shall ring — 
" For Spain — Saint Iago — and the King !" 



DIE HEBZ-BLUME. 

There grew a little flower once, 

That blossomed in a day, 

And some said it would ever bloom, 

And some 'twould fade away, 

And some said it was Happiness, 

And some said it was Spring, 

And some said it was Grief and Tears, 

And many such, a thing ; 

But still the little flower bloomed, 

And still it lived and throve. — 

And men do call it " Summer-growth," 

But the angels call it " Love !" 




TO WILL-O'-THE-WISP. 



veb, the marish, and over the bog, 
Over the pools, where arises the fog, 
Lamp of the leeches and fire of the frog ! 
Why did you lead me astray ? 
Why did you gleam like a beaconing light, 
Flickering out in the gloom of the night ? 
I was quite sure you were leading me right, 
When I turned out of the way. 



Faithless, and fickle, and treacherous lamp, 
Why did I follow you into the swamp, 
Where the soft ground was so slimy and damp, 

And the long rushes so crisp ? 
Wet, worn, and weary I homeward have sped, 
And find, on undressing and going to bed, 
A leech in each boot and a cold in my head ! 

Treacherous Will-o'-the-Wisp ! 



THE CAVALIER AND THE PURITAN. 



CHAPTER I. 



In the days of King James the Second, there 
lived at Burnley Manor " a right loyal gentleman/'' 
as he was called at that period. His ancestors, 
from time immemorial, had lived in the old house. 
I need not go through the long pedigree, to show 
how one of the " Burnleighs of Burnleiglr" had 
been to the Holy Land (was not his long red-cross 
shield hanging up in the old hall ?) or how one of 
them sailed with Sir Walter Raleigh, or how, in 
later years, Geoffrey Burnley was killed at the battle 
of Naseby— that fatal fight, when so many noble 
English families perished. Burnley's son, concealed 
by the friendship of a Puritan called Crane, who 



163 THE CAVALIER 

lived at Burnley, had returned to his estates at the 
time of the Restoration, and, in turn, extended his 
protection to Crane's son, who was nearly suffering 
imprisonment. One would have thought that such 
mutual kindness would have bound their descen- 
dants together for ever; but, as will be seen 
hereafter, avarice stepped in, and broke up friend- 
ship that promised to be so lasting. 

The Burnley we last mentioned married a lady of 
good family, who bore him one son. While the 
merry-making and carousing were going on at the 
Manor House for the birth of the heir, the wife of 
the rescued Crane died in giving birth to a male 
child. The two infants thus ushered into the 
world on the same day, and almost at the same 
hour, seemed as if born to be playmates and friends 
— a still stronger tie between the two families — but 
fate had destined them to play a different part in 
the great drama of life. Young Cyril Burnley and 
Roger Crane went to the same school, where the 
latter soon outstripped his school-mate, not less in 
learning than in intelligence, for Cyril was an easy, 
quiet lad, not remarkable for shrewdness. His 
friends called him a " good-natured fellow," that 
being the euphuism for the epithet " fool," accorded 
him by his enemies ; while Roger, far from being a 



AND THE PURITAN. 163 

" fool/' inclined a little more to the " knave." 
After spending some time at school, the two youths 
went to Oxford, where Cyril entered at Christ 
Church, while Roger obtained a scholarship at tlie 
neighbouring Hall of Broadgates, which some time 
before had been raised to the dignity of a college. 
Here he progressed rapidly, and after leaving 
college, became a studious Templar. 

Cyril led a jolly life at Oxford, but was at length 
expelled by the college authorities for some irregu- 
larity — I believe for a dispute with a Puritan 
Doctor of Divinity, which ended in his flooring the 
worthy divine — after which exploit he retired to 
his native village, and, his father being dead, began 
the life of a country squire. About the same time 
Crane, having arrived at the dignity of a " Coun- 
sellor," came down to Burnley, and from that 
period our history commences. 

Discords and dissensions soon began, and King 
James was driven from his throne, and in the 
struggles and troubles that followed, Cyril was 
suspected of assisting the celebrated Dundee. 
Certain it is that he raised a small body of men, 
and disappeared from the neighbourhood, only 
reappearing some time after the fatal battle of 
Killiecrankie, when, with the shattered remnants of 



164 THE CAVALIER 

his followers, lie returned to Burnley ; but the few 
who went with him on that secret expedition were 
tried, and faithful, and kept their own counsel, so 
that, in spite of the lectures and cross-questionings 
of their respective wives, the truth was never 
elicited, and, though dangerously compromised, 
Cyril escaped unpunished. 

But his heart was with King James, and not to 
be behind his ancestors in loyalty, he determined 
not to take the oath of fealty to the usurper, as he 
invariably called William of Orange. 

He was not a man of great moral courage, so he 
laid a plan by which he might escape an open 
refusal, and yet satisfy his conscience— he was 
sensible enough to see that open resistance was 
useless, and there was no hope left for James. 

In the year 1688, then, or the year following, 
Cyril, while in London, fell in with William Penn, 
the well-known Quaker. Penn about this time was 
suffering for his close friendship with the exiled 
King. Four several times was he carried before 
King William in council, and accused of being in 
secret correspondence with James. His own people 
cried out against him as a Romanist, nay, as a 
Jesuit in disguise — and numerous rumours of the 
most horrible description were circulated about him. 



A1SD THE PUEITAN. 165 

Cyril was irresistibly attracted towards him by his 
real goodness and sterling worth, which all the 
calumnies of the world could not destroy. He 
communicated his difficulties, and Penn advised 
him, rather unwisely, perhaps, to start for the new 
colony on the banks of the Delaware. After 
talking it over 1 , Cyril rettnned to Burnley, and sent 
down early on the morning after his arrival to beg 
Roger Crane to come up, as he had important 
business to communicate to him. 

A close friendship still existed between the two, 
although the Puritan seldom visited the Manor 
House, for the jolly life of the Cavalier, and his 
revelries and merry-makings, were hardly suited to 
his taste. 

We will take a look at Cyril while he is waiting 
for Crane in the little library, for, although the 
former thought it necessary to have a library, seeing 
that he had been a magistrate and justice of the 
peace under King James, he adorned the walls with 
only just enough books to give it a right to that 
title ; and of those books most were works of no 
very justiciary weight — Philip Sydney's "Arcadia," 
" The Faerie Queene," a mighty collection of jovial 
Cavalier song-books, with a scanty, very scanty, 
sprinkling of sermons, most of them being upon 



166 THE CAVALIER 

the King's Supremacy. Cyril had now grown a 
fine man, just in the prime of life ; his long dark 
hair hung in curls upon his shoulders, for he des- 
pised the idea of a wig ; his moustache had in it a 
slight tinge of auburn, that contrasted well with his 
black love-locks. His face was marked— not dis- 
figured — by a scarcely-healed scar that he had 
brought back with him from the mysterious expe- 
dition we have mentioned. He was tall, and 
straight, though his stout, well-formed limbs took 
away slightly from his height. 

Very different was the figure that now entered 
the room. Roger Crane, although of the same age 
as Cyril, seemed twenty years his senior. His 
figure was bowed with long study, and deep fur- 
rows and lines, arising from the same cause, did 
not add beauty to a face that in itself was not 
pleasant. His hair was already grizzled, and his 
figure was lean and spare. At his knee toddled 
a little girl of about five years of age — his daughter 
— for Roger was married, and though folks said 
he was a cruel husband, and a hard lawyer, it would 
have been difficult to have found a more kind and 
loving father. 

Putting the child on a chair, whence she could 
look out of the window down a long avenue of 



AND THE PURITAN". 167 

elms, where the little grey rabbits kept darting 
about from among the ferns on either side of the 
drive, Roger seated himself in an arm-chair, and 
waited for Cyril to speak. 

Cyril was striding up and down with a sort of 
desperate air, whistling the tune of one of his 
favourite songs, the first verse of which ran as 
follows : — 

" The stars were winking in the sky, 
And the moon went dancing along, 
When we fell on the Roundhead rebel's camp, 
Pull fifteen hundred strong ! 

Come carol us a carol oh ! * 
The Roundheads to the devil go, 
And God save our good King \" 

Suddenly recollecting that perhaps Crane might 
not relish the ditty, he stopped short, threw himself 
into a chair, and filling a glass of claret, tossed it 
off, and began business. 

"Roger, old friend, Fve made up my mind to 
leave the old country. Odds fish, man ! do you 
think that after swearing fealty to our good King 
James — whom God restore to his throne say I — 

* The inscriptions on the coins of Charles the Second, 
" Carolus a Carolo." 



168 THE CAVALIER 

I can turn about, weather-cock fashion, and bow 
down to a fat Dutch herring ? Pshaw i" he con- 
tinued, as he saw that Crane was about to protest 
against this abuse of William of Orange ; "I do 
not often run a-tilt at your prejudices, but I must 
have my say out now, and you must e'en bear with 
me this once, for you may never see me again. 
While I was staying in London, I fell in with the 
worthy Penn, and have made up my mind to set 
out for the settlement, that he has named after him 
— Pennsylvania. Now seeing, Roger, that I have 
neither chit nor child, I bethought me of the old 
friendship of our families ; and, albeit, since we 
left Oxford you have seldom come up here, still I 
have much friendship for my old college friend, 
and respect your scruples, though, odd's life ! I 
cannot see iniquity in cracking a joke or a bottle 
of claret, or sin in singing a roaring song. But 
let that pass, old friend, we have all our hobbies. 
So now to tell you why I required to see you. 
Seeing, as I have said, that I have no children, 
I have determined to leave my estates in your 
hands, if you will undertake the charge, until I 
either settle down in the new country, as is most 
probable, or return to England. I will not insult 
you, old friend, by offering to pay you as a steward, 



AND THE PUEITAN. 169 

but do you live on the income of the property as it 
falls in. Bring up your wife and youngster, and 
live here. By my soul ! the old house wants some 
piety to air it, for it has been the scene of roystering 
and mirth these many long years. Well, what say 
you, Roger? Will you undertake the trouble on 
these conditions ?" 

"In sooth, Cyril Burnley," answered Roger, 
" sith you wish it to be— though I like not the 
thought of being an hireling." 

" Pish, man/' interrupted the Cavalier ; "I do 
not ask you to do so, but I had rather an old 
friend lived in my father's house, than a stranger 
or a steward, who would defraud me of the moneys 
that I offer you as a gift. So no more words to the 
bargain. If you will get ready your chattels, 
the house shall be vacant to-morrow at sun- 
set." 

So saying, Cyril shook Crane by the hand, who, 
seeing that the other seemed to wish to say no 
more on the subject, did not oppose him longer. 
The Cavalier, having called together his servants, 
told them that he was about to set out for a far 
country, and amply paid them their wages, thank- 
ing them for their good services. There was many 
a moist eye among them, for rough and hot-headed 



170 THE CAVALIER 

though he was, there never breathed a kinder or 
better master. So the domestics packed up their 
baggage, and departed to their homes. 

The next day Cyril and the Counsellor were 
walking up and down the avenue in deep conversa- 
tion. Cyril now spoke more freely, and, the first 
plunge taken, seemed able to think and act more 
freely. 

" There is much to be feared, mind you/' said 
Roger; "'tis marvellous unhealthy, this same 
America, they tell me, where there be numbers of 
savage beasts, besides savage men, of which there 
be tribes, and exceeding fierce, too, for did they 
not kill my worthy uncle Joash Wax-confident-in- 
bonds, who went forth among them to preach the 
Gospel ?" 

" A man must die somewhere, and at some 
time/' said Cyril, "and the bare idea of danger 
gives a smack to life, like the lemons in a rousing 
bowl of punch ; besides, too, if I like it not, I shall 
return, and if aught brings me back, why, I shall 
know where to find you, and will relieve you of the 
cares of the stewardship." 

" But you may never return, Cyril Burnley." 

" Well, if I do not, then you may have the lands, 
and welcome, for of all the world I shall then want 



AND THE PUBITAN. 171 

barely six feet of earth, and I may not want even 
that if I be eaten by the savages, who, they tell 
me, be mighty eaters of human flesh ." 

So, with a laugh, Cyril strapped the little valise 
(containing the money he intended to take with 
him) to the saddle-bow of his horse, which was 
just led out from the stable. Flinging himself on 
its back, he shook Roger warmly by the hand, and 
rode off at full speed, followed by a servant leading 
the horse that bore the rest of his baggage. 

Cyril did not turn back for a last glance— he 
could not trust himself to look again on his an- 
cestral home. If he had turned he would have 
seen little, for in spite of his forced gaiety, there 
was a dimness before his eyes that might almost 
have been called tears. 

Without any adventure, Cyril reached London, 
and there embarked on board the ' John Key/ a 
ship called after the first child born at the settle- 
ment of Philadelphia, who died, in 1767, an old 
man of eighty-five, having gone all his life by the 
name of First Born. 

After a long and tedious voyage, the vessel at 
length reached the Delaware, and sailing up, 
dropped anchor off the rising colony of Philadel- 



172 THE CAVALIER 

phia. Here Cyril landed, and here we will leave 
him. 

The old Puritan settled down at Burnley Manor, 
and brought his child to dwell there — and the 
house became so familiar to him, that he looked 
upon it as his own, and forgot all about Cyril 
Burnley. 



AND THE PURITAN. 173 



CHAPTER II. 

Years passed by, and Roger, perhaps too readily 
believing Cyril to be dead, began to act as Lord of 
the Manor, altering and improving, selling, buying 
and exchanging at his own pleasure. While this 
was going on, poor Penn had been brought into 
disgrace by the false accusations of Fuller, and 
after years of neglect was only just reinstated in 
the King's favour and restored to his government. 
In the meantime, Cyril had found out how sadly he 
erred in coming to the settlement. He had bought 
a farm, which he did not know how to manage, 
and which, after a struggle of many long years, 
he was obliged to give up, broken in health and 
fortunes. 

During the first year after his arrival at Phil- 



174 THE CAVALIER 

adelphia, he began to discover that the customs of 
the rigidly simple and often fanatic inhabitants — 
for the most part men who for religious reasons 
had sought a new home — were little calculated to 
suit a roystering Cavalier ; so after vainly seeking 
for companions after his own heart, he took unto 
himself a wife, the daughter of a worthy old Dutch- 
man, who parted with her for the slight considera- 
tion of a hogshead of tobacco. She, however, did 
not survive these nuptials many years. 

For some time before her death the farm had 
been going fast to rack, so at last the Cavalier, with 
a sigh, turned his back upon the settlement, and set 
out with an only son for England. 

Few would have recognised in him the fine 
hearty man who came there from the old world. 
Indeed, one or two of the inhabitants confided as 
much to each other, as they watched him going off 
in the ship, as the vessel unfolded her white wings, 
and rounded the woody Cape. Poor Cyril ! his 
hair was grey, and, in contrast to his face, tanned 
by exposure to the sun, seemed almost white. His 
limbs were shrunk and wasted, and he had lost his 
former erect carriage in a fever through which the 
homely, affectionate little Dutchwoman had nursed 
him with unceasing care. 



AND THE PURITAN. 175 

When he readied Loudon, Cyril left his little 
son in the care of the innkeeper's wife, and travelled 
with all speed to Burnley. It was a hot summer's 
day, and Roger Crane was seated at the open 
library window, watching his two girls tending the 
flowers on the lawn ; for the ferns on either side 
of the avenue were gone, and with them the timid 
rabbits that used to flit among them. It was now 
. a trim lawn, dotted over with quaintly-shaped beds 
filled with gorgeous flowers. 

Suddenly a figure sprang in at the window, and 
before Crane could distinguish who it was, his hand 
was seized in a firm grasp, and a voice that he 
knew only too well, altered though it was, ex- 
claimed : 

" God bless you, Roger ! God bless you ! it is a 
comfort to see an old well-known face again. 
Odslife, but you're little changed with all these 
long years. Art tired of the stewardship ? I have 
come to relieve you, for I have lost every farthing 
I had in that infernal old psalm-singing settlement, 
so I have come back to end my days in peace in the 
home of my childhood. But you shall not budge, 
man, there's room enough for us all, and your wife 
must be a mother to my boy, for I've been married, 



176 THE CAVALIER 

old friend, since I saw you last/' and here bis voice 
began to falter ; " poor heart, she was a good 
woman, God bless her. But by my soul, Roger ¥?. 
he exclaimed, observing the cold look of astonish- 
ment with which Crane regarded him, " don't you 
remember me ? Cyril, Cyril Burnley ! your old 
friend ! surely you've not forgotten ?" 

" In good sooth, no, my good man," said Crane, 
" I cannot have forgotten you in that I never knew 
you : and let me tell you that if you think to act 
Cyril Burnley, you will not find me very ready of 
belief/' 

Burnley stood aghast. At first he thought 
Crane was joking, but there was that in his tone 
which showed him to be in earnest. At length he 
found words to speak. 

"Roger Crane, for Heaven's sake don't jest with 
me !" 

" Jest ! sirrah ! I advise you to beware how you 
carry your jest farther. If you do not get hence I 
will soon make you." 

The truth began to dawn upon Cyril ; he pressed 
him again and again, until at length Crane ex- 
claimed— 

" You must produce your papers. Doubtless 



AND THE PURITAN. 17 7 

you will find many living who will recognise in 
you the fine, hearty, roystering Burnley, of Burn- 
ley." 

" Heartless wretch \" exclaimed Cyril. " Now I 
can see your cold-blooded villainy; you know as 
God is judge between us, that I trusted my lands 
to you, as I would to my mother's son. I know 
that, friendless and penniless as I am, I have no 
hope left. You may rob the son of your father's 
preserver of his birthright, but mark me, your ill- 
got riches shall not prosper you !" 

He was gone ; but before his shadow had passed 
from the room, Roger Crane had fallen senseless 
to the ground : whether it was the excitement or 
the terror of that interview, or whether it was a 
direct punishment from Heaven, no one can tell ; 
but from that hour one half of his body, from the 
crown of his head to the sole of his foot, was dead 
— paralyzed. 

Cyril went to London, and, embarking with his 
young son, he sought a home in Holland among 
his wife's kindred ; and it was there on his death- 
bed, some years after, that he imparted to his son 
the facts that our readers are already acquainted 
with. 

This son, Hugh, grew up into a fine youth, and 
i 3 



178 THE CAVALIER 

obtained a commission in one of the Dutch regi- 
ments, where he passed by the name of Bomhagh. 
The thought struck him that in Captain Bornhagh, 
the young Dutch officer, few people would recognise 
the son of Cyril Burnley, of Burnley ; so with all 
the romance of youth he determined to visit the 
place that should have been his own, and try to 
recover the estates which his father, worn out by 
long troubles and age, had too easily despaired of 
recovering. 

For a long time after Cyril's departure, Crane 
had been fearful lest he should strive to recover 
his estates, or perhaps, attempt to take personal 
vengeance. Conscience was not still, and the worm 
that never dies was not asleep, and the old man, 
as he went trailing one half of his body a dead 
weight about with him, would often curse himself 
and his fate, and long for death to remove him from 
his sufferings. 

His only delight was in his daughters ; the 
younger, a fair, delicate-looking girl, quiet and 
meek, yet, as she proved afterwards, not without 
a little of her father's determined spirit, when 
roused. The elder was a dark beauty, but her 
features bore an unpleasant resemblance to her 
father, as, indeed, did her character, for she was 



AND THE PURITAN. 179 

proud, and fierce, and unflinching, and if she was 
not wicked like him, it was only because she had 
had no opportunity of being so. As time wore on, 
blindness was added to old Crane's other afflictions, 
and then his daughters became his only solace. 
They read to him, sang to him, and played to him, 
and became so necessary to his existence that the 
selfish old man would hardly suffer them to go out 
of his hearing, and drove away, by increasing 
churlishness, the suitors who. had come to seek 
them in marriage. 



180 THE CAVALIER 



CHAPTER III. 

When Hugh Bornhagh arrived at Burnley, he 
took up his quarters at the village inn — the " Cup 
and Capon/' as the signboard gave out — and having 
ordered a good bowl of punch, he cleverly opened 
the campaign by inviting his host to partake of it 
with him. Hugh w T as sufficiently well versed in 
the tricks of the mess-table to ply his host, without 
seeming to hang back himself, and, at length, when 
the genial liquor began to take effect, and the 
victim became talkative and communicative, he 
led him round to the subject of the Counsellor, 
and got out of him all the information he had to 
impart. 

Mine host's opinion of Crane was perhaps less 



AND THE PURITAN. 181 

complimentary, though assuredly not less candid 
than it would have been, had he not seen so deep 
into the punchbowl. After informing Hugh that 
the Counsellor was "just the queerest old fish that 
ever snored a psalm" — for the jolly host was at 
heart a real foe to the Roundheads, like all other 
good fellows — he assured him that his daughters 
were "as pretty lasses as you might see within 
fifty miles ;" that the old fellow was a great wor- 
shipper of King William the Third; and that he 
drove aw T ay all the "goodly youths that went a 
courting the two sisters by his crabbed, ungainly 
ways." 

This and a thousand other things the host told 
his guest, though somewhat indistinctly occasionally. 
Hugh sat up late that night, revolving plans of 
attack : first one, and then another was adopted 
and thrown aside, until he fixed upon one that 
pleased him. The next morning Crane was called 
out to meet a visitor, and leaning on the arm of 
Lilias, his youngest daughter, he crawled into his 
consultation room. As they entered, the stranger 
made a low bow to Lilias, in which his eyes cer- 
tainly did their best to let her understand the 
impression she had made upon him ; nor did they 
fail, if we are to believe the little fluttering blush 



182 THE CAVALIER 

that her cheeks hung out as an answering signal, 
as she left the room after returning Hugh's greeting 
with no small trepidation. 

As soon as she was gone, Hugh announced him- 
self as " Captain Bornhagh." At the sound of his 
voice the old man leant eagerly forward in his chair, 
his bony hands grasping the arms tightly, and his 
eye-balls glaring terribly. " Speak again/ ; he 
murmured, trembling, " surely my ears deceive me. 
Quick ! speak ! I think I know that voice !" Hugh 
repeated his name more clearly, adding the reason 
of his visit — an imaginary case of some intricacy. 
The old man grew calm, giving his advice here and 
there, as the narration proceeded, with great shrewd- 
ness. 

Hugh managed very cleverly in the course of 
conversation to let fall, as if by accident, that he 
was a Dutchman, and a favoured protege of the 
King's. Crane took the bait readily, became very 
civil, and taking great interest in his case, invited 
the young man to partake of some refreshment. 
In a word, Hugh had opened the campaign suc- 
cessfully, and from that day became a frequent 
visitor. 

He followed up the advantages he had obtained, 
and in no long time made himself master of Lilias J 



AND THE PURITAN. 183 

heart. It was not until they had made their 
mutual confession of love that the lovers began to 
think how their attachment could be brought to a 
happy issue. 

Taking the Counsellor aside one evening, Hugh 
said, " My good Sir, Fll give twenty gold pieces to 
the man who will solve for me a knotty point that 
entirely baffles my sagacity. Will you assist me in 
unravelling it ?" 

" Gold pieces are not so plenty now-a-days/ ; 
said Crane, " that I should think of refusing twenty 
of them for advice that it may not take me as 
many minutes to give.-" 

"Well then, Sir, the case is this: — Before I 
came here I was attached to a young lady of good 
family ; in fact, Sir, as far as ourselves were con- 
cerned, we were betrothed. I applied to her re- 
latives for consent. I have just received their 
refusal, and from what I can judge, and know- 
ing them to be Jacobites, I fear that the King's 
favour, instead of assisting me, is the cause 
of my rejection. The first idea that presented 
itself to me was to carry her off, but prudence 
reminded me that the young lady was not of age ; 
in this perplexity, therefore, I thought that perhaps 
your great skill might assist me. 3 ' 



184 THE CAVALIER 

" The thing's plain and easy enough/' said the 
Counsellor, "get the young lady to carry you 
off!" 

" How do you mean ?" inquired Hugh. 

"Why, simply thus — Get your horse ready, 
strap a pillion on in front. Let the young lady 
mount first, and give you her hand to assist you to 
mount behind her. This done, nothing remains 
but for her to ply whip and spur and carry you off; 
and I defy all the judges in the world to lay a 
finger on you." 

" Odslife, a most excellent plan !" cried Hugh, 
laughing more at the idea of old Crane's outwitting 
himself than anything else; so he paid the twenty 
pieces without grudge, and bade the Counsellor 
" good night." 

When he left the house, instead of going down 
the avenue, he turned to the left, and keeping in 
the shadow of the house, crept round quietly to the 
back. The watch-dog came out of the kennel and 
shook and stretched himself, but after reconnoitring, 
turned round and coiled himself up to sleep again ; 
so it seems that it was not the first time that Master 
Hugh had stopped under the little casement, at 
which he now r tapped lightly wdth a long slender 
willow wand. At the first tap the window opened, 



AST) THE PURITAN. 185 

and Lilias appeared, to whom he explained the 
advice he had received. 

To Lilias' credit be it said, that it was not until 
after considerable persuasion, and when she saw 
that there w T as no other way left, that she con- 
sented to fly with Hugh ; but her scruples once 
overcome, she w r as ready to adopt any plau he might 
suggest. 

The next night found Hugh at the same place, 
but this time, instead of a willow wand, it was a 
ladder that he drew out from among the 
shrubs. 

Lilias opened the window, and stepping lightly 
down the ladder, found herself in her lover's arms. 
After wasting a few precious moments in joyful 
whispers and kisses that were, perhaps, too loud to 
be discreet, she mounted the horse, which was 
waiting at the end of the avenue, and went through 
the farce of assisting Hugh to mount behind her; 
for truth to tell, the only use he made of the hand 
she offered him was to press it to his lips as he 
bounded lightly to his seat. 

Before the next morning they were many miles 
away ; and almost as soon as he discovered the 
loss of his daughter, old Crane received a note 



186 THE CAVALIER 

which Hugh had left for him at his inn, wherein 
he thanked the old lawyer for his excellent advice, 
" which/' as the letter said, " he would see, was not 
thrown away." 



AND THE PURITAN. 187 



CHAPTER IV. 

It would be folly to attempt to describe the 
Counsellor's rage when he saw how he had been 
outwitted. For several days he was so savage and 
surly that even his eldest daughter did not dare go 
near him. After a time, however, he grew calmer, 
and would even sometimes speak of Lilias, but he 
never uttered a word about Hugh. But from the 
hour she left him, he began to break up rapidly, 
and before the year was quite out he was seized 
with a violent attack, which laid him on a sick 
bed, and his life was then despaired of. For a 
long time he lay raving and delirious, and from 
his lips Bridget gleaned, during his paroxysms, the 
tale of crime which is already known to the reader. 
When, as he drew near his end, he became calmer 



188 THE CAVALIER 

and more sensible, she questioned him about it, and 
he told her all. 

At the first announcement of his illness, his son- 
in-law hurried to the house, but no sooner had 
Hugh crossed the threshold than, with a loud yell, 
he sat upright in the bed, stretching out his arms 
as if to keep him off, screaming, " Cyril ! Cyril 
Burnley! Spectre or devil — a vaunt ! Bridget, my 
child ! protect me ! drive him hence ! Oh, Hea- 
ven ! mercy ! mercy \" 

He sunk back, his eyes closed, and in a moment 
he was motionless — dead ! 

Hugh came up to the bedside, and looked the 
dead man in the face, and said, turning to Bridget, 
"It is too true— you see in me the son of Cyril 
Burnley, the man whom your father robbed of his 
birthright. I did not think to witness such a 
terrible scene. Heaven have mercy on his soul ;" 
and with a shudder he turned away, and, mounting 
his horse, set out homeward. 

Gently he broke to his wife the news of her 
father's death, and the story of his wrongs. Poor 
Lilias ! She had loved her father dearly, selfish 
and stern though he was, and it was a sad blow to 
her to know that he was guilty of so heartless a 
crime. 



AND THE PU£ITA>\ 189 

After a time, she recovered her health and spirits, 
and her husband established his claim to the estates 
by an arrangement with the elder sister, who was 
at first very loth to give up the property, but at 
last consented when she found she had no means 
of proving her father's title. In their new home 
Hugh and his loving little wife lived long and 
happily together. 



THE BIRTHDAY. 

Ox a bonny, bonny morn 
My sweet Ladie She was born ! 
On the first day of the Spring, 
When the birds were mustering, 
Warbling forth a thousand loves 
In the emerald-budded groves ! 

Sweetest morn of all the years, 
Half in sunshine, half in tears, 
From the East it came up blushing 
Like a maiden's cheek in flushing 
All bedewed with joyful tears 
Eor the love-tale that she hears. 
So arose the bonny mom 
When my Ladie fair was born ! 

When they knew the Spring arrive' 
All the pretty flowers revived ; 



THE BIRTHDAY. 191 

And the fairest Earth did bring 
As an offering to Spring. 
But of all those gems of Earth 
None was there enough of worth 
For sweet Spring on that bright morn, 
When my Ladie fair was born. 

Then to Spring in all her charms 
Nature came, and in her arms 
Bore my little Ladie fair, 
As a flower beyond compare ; 
Then, as in her arms She lay, 
Did sweet Spring to Nature say — 
" Thou hast brought the fairest flower 
To adorn my first bright hour, 
Crowning all the gifts of Earth 
By this little blossom's birth ! 
In Her cheek I see the blush 
Of the first Spring-morning flush ; 
In Her eyes I see the light 
Of the first Spring-morning bright ; 
And Her voice shall be as sweet 
As the wild birds' songs that greet 
My approach with early lays, 
Musical with love and praise. 
And Her locks shall be the night 
That Spring-morning puts to flight !" 

Thus is She th' embodying 

Of the Year-Queen — Beauteous Spring 



192 THE BIRTHDAY. 

And because Earth could not bring 
Any offering worthy Spring, 
On that bonny, bonny morn 
My fair Ladie She was born ; 
And the morning wept above Her 
As a mother that did love Her. 
(For the joy that most endears 
All our life is told by tears ; — 
Told by speech, or told by glance, 
But most in tears finds utterance.) 

Thus upon that bonny morn 
My sweet Ladie She was born. 



THE SONG OF STEAM. 

Pile the fire ! — Heap it high ! — Let the red embers glow ! 

Hurl in fuel full fast to the furnace below ! 

Who knows not my power ? Though, in truth, I may seem 

But feeble ; who knows not the power of Steam ? 

On the land, on the sea, who is stronger than I ? 

Through the fields, by the towns, o'er the rivers I fly 

As swift as a bird, with a whirr and a scream, 

Shouting out "I am Power ! I am Might ! I am Steam !" 



In the bowels of Earth, where the dayhght comes dim 
Through the long miles of tunnel so gloomy and grim, 
Like a dragon I speed with my fierce-glaring eyes, 
Earth trembling around me in fear and surprise ! 

And at night, when 'tis dark, like the stars in the sky, 

Along the embankments my flashing lamps fly ; 

As I hurry along in the gloom of the night 

With a scream, and a gleam, and a flash of red light, 



194 THE SONG OF STEAM. 

And, while brightly the fires of my triumphing, beam, 
I shout " I am Power ! I am Might ! I am Steam !" 

In the thick-peopled town, where the tall chimneys rise 
And roll forth their clouds of black smoke to the skies, 
Unceasing, unyielding, unwearying still, 
I toil at the lathe — at the loom — at the mill ! 

Turns the wheel ! — Moves the beam ! — Fly round quickly the 

bands ! 
And swift grows the wonderful web 'neath my hands ! 
Though the silk may be fine, though the thread may be 

weak, 
At the touch of the Giant no fibre shall break ! 

Fly round swiftly the bands ! — Moves the beam ! — Turns the 

wheel ! 
And subdued by my power is the cold, stubborn steel ! 
Though the metal be hard and unbending — 'tis nought ; — 
By the hand of the Giant 'tis polished and wrought ! 

Fly round swiftly the bands ! — Turns the wheel ! — Moves the 

beam! 
And the mill slow revolves at the magic of Steam ! 
Oh, though weighty and huge be the stone of the mill, 
Yet the hand of the Giant can move it at will ! 

The shrill-screeching saw by my power is driven, 

And the strong heart of Oak through its centre is riven ; 



THE SONG OP STEAJI. 195 

Nor cleave the sharp teeth through stout timber aloue, 
But through metal aucl marble — through iron and stone. 

They feed me with rags — with the tatters and shreds — 
The slough of foul patches — that Poverty sheds ; 
And behold ! as the fly from its chrysalis springs 
In the pride and the beauty of soft downy wings, 
By the might of my magic, revealed to the sight, 
The rags — rags no longer — are paper snow-white ! 
And while swiftly I ply wheel and rod, crank and beam, 
I shout " I am Power ! I am Might ! I am Steam !" 

Yet not in the town all my labours are done, 

But where far-stretching meadows are bright in the sun, 

Where the woodlands are green with the whispering leaves, 

And the corn-lands are loaded with bright golden sheaves. 

There — afar o'er the fields, rich with ripe, rustling grain — 

The hum of my voice sounds distinctly and plain, 

As I sing to myself o'er the work that I ply, 

And the chaff by my pinions is wafted on high ; 

While I busily fan, till my task is complete, 

From the useful the worthless — the husk from the wheat ! 

And by Nature's fresh loveliness round him o'ercome, 

The voice of the Giant falls lower — grows dumb — 

And, as drowsy with joy he sinks down in a dream, 

Murmurs low " I am Power ! I am Might ! I am Steam !" 

Where Man the Earth's deep-hidden caverns explores, 
And digs from its centre the wonderful ores, 

K 2 



196 THE SONG OE STEAM. 

From the gold that shall glisten with gems in a crown, 

To the lead that shall coffin the bones of a clown ! 

At the mouth of the pit — at the shaft of the mine, 

Where all the day long they can see the stars shine, 

Across the abyss stand I, firm in my might, 

And bring the rare treasures of ore to the light, 

From the veins of the Great Mother — Earth — where of old 

Kan the current of bright, precious blood, they call gold ! 

Earth — whose sinews are iron and copper and lead ; 

In whose bosom Man lays the beloved ones dead ; 

Earth who rears Man himself — brings him up at her breast, 

Who folds her arms round him, and soothes him to rest ; — 

From the deep-hidden caverns, where crystal and spar 

Through the gloom of the mine glimmer forth like a star, 

I bring the rich treasures of ore to the day : 

And they smelt them, and weld them, and bear them away ; 

And each metal goes forth on its mission laid down, 

As the spade or the blade — as the coin or the crown. 

While beside the abyss stand I — ever supreme — 

Shouting out " I am Power ! I am Might ! I am Steam !" 

On the far-distant seas, through the storm and the spray, 

Unflinching, swift -darting, I speed on my way ; 

With a pulse that ne'er stops, and with fins that ne'er tire, 

A Leviathan filled with a soul, that is Fire ! 

Wind and Tide strive in vain — I cleave sternly as Death 

Through the tempest above and the wild waves beneath ; 

And the long trailing smoke floats away o'er the main, 

As I lash the dark waters to foam in disdain ; 



THE SONG OF STEAM. 197 

And the waves in the night-time seem blushing blood-red, 

Reflecting the lurid light hanging o'erhead. 

And the sea-monsters gaze — too majestic to fly — 

With their great fearful eyes, as I hurry me by ; 

And the wild birds of Ocean wheel round me and scream ; 

As I shout " I am Power ! I am Might ! I am Steam !" 

But not in the fields, by the mine, on the main, 
In the loom, or the mill, or the swift-speeding train, 
Is the wonderful work — yea, the mightiest one — 
Of the Giant of Good — of the Steam Monarch done ! 

Pile the fire ! — Heap it high ! — Let the red embers glow ! 

Hurl in fuel full fast to the furnace below ! 

Let the wheels fly round fast ! — Let the bands quickly run ! 

For my mightiest deed yet remains to be done ; 

And while swiftly I ply wheel and band, rod and beam, 

I shout " I am Power ! I am Might ! I am Steam !" 

I hunger ! Before me for food let them throw 
The broad sheets of paper, as spotless as snow. 
Turns the wheel ! Moves the crank ! Roll the cylinders 

slow! 
And the sheets, one by one, disappear down below ! 

Roll the cylinders slow ! Turns the wheel ! Moves the 

crank ! 
And the paper comes forth — but no longer a blank ! 
And the mightiest deed of the Steam Giant's done, 
And forth on the wide world the volume has gone, 



198 THE SONG OF STEAM. 

Impress'd with high thoughts that shall live through all time, 
With the words of the bards or the sages sublime ; 
And the people of Earth, hail the volume and bless 
The Giant whose mightiest work is the Press. 

Pile the fire ! Heap it high ! Let the red embers glow ! 
Hurl iu fuel full fast to the furnace below ! 
Through the long coming ages, unchanged will I stand, 
Striviug long, striving strong, through the breadth of the 

land, 
Never ceasing the toil, that of yore I began 
Por the glory of God — for the welfare of Man ! 
Pile the fire ! Heap it high ! Let the red embers gleam ! 
" I am Strength ! I am Power ! I am Might ! I am Steam !" 



MARLBOROUGH HOUSE. 

" A House — but under some prodigious ban 
Of excommunication!" 

As the Committee of the above-mentioned es- 
tablishment, as well as Mr. Ruskin and Mrs. 
Merrifield, with a host of others, are all giving 
forth, essays and laying down rules, each according 
to his or her particular fancy, we cannot see why 
we should not have a hand in the matter too, and 
start our School of Design, and publish our ideas of 
true taste. 

In some points, we agree with the various au- 
thorities we have quoted. Do not try to make 
things look what they are not — let a chair be a 
chair, a table a table. (We remember one in the 



200 MARLBOROUGH HOUSE. 

Exhibition formed by the shield of a gladiator, who 
knelt with a drawn sword underneath — an inhos- 
pitable board — a new plan for cutting disagreeable 
acquaintances.) 

No, we say, let everything seem what it is. Do 
not have your ink-stand shaped like a wolfs head 
with a moveable brain-pan, or (though it does 
please your anti-Eussian ideas) a bear with his 
throat cut, and a hinge instead of a vertebra. We 
repeat, this is false taste ; let your ink-stand be an 
ink-stand, or, at least, as ink-standish as possible. 
Let your mantel-piece be a mantel-piece; do not 
Gingham and Grodynaples advertise their mantle- 
pieces in the best taste at one guinea ? Let your 
sofa be a sofa in sofa?' as may be. 

Our natural modesty prevents us from asserting 
that the new receptacles for letters in the City were 
first suggested by us ; being in accordance with our 
theory, post-boxes and nothing but it. Our modesty, 
we repeat, prevents us from asserting this, but let 
the public insinuate as much, we shall not deny the 
imputation. 

We will now explain, by a few designs, what our 
canons are. 

We agree with the Marlborough House Com- 



MARLBOROUGH HOUSE. 




mittee that we should not have cabbage-roses and 
scrolls meandering over carpets ; but we do not see 
that the Turkish patterns and conventional forms 
are any better than the 
things complained of. 
Look at our design — it 
conveys to the spectator 
immediately the purpose 
for which it is intended. 
It is a stare-carpet, and 
no mistake ! 

Suppose a youth fresh from the country — but 
newly transplanted from his native rural scenes — 
in a word, picture a Corydon in Cavendish Street, 
a Battus in Belgravia, or a Melibceus in May fair. 
Imagine him standing in a gorgeous drawing-room, 
resplendent with the gaudy knick-knacks of the 
prevailing false taste. If he were requested to 
take a seat on the Ottoman, would he — unac- 
quainted as he is with the adjuncts of fashionable 
life— know what article of furniture was meant? 
He would gaze round the room, bewildered, hope- 
less ; there is not the least chance of his guessing 
that the square seat, with a tassel at each corner, 
and a bird of Paradise on the seat, is the required 
k 3 



202 



MARLBOROUGH HOUSE. 




article. But supposing our design were worked 
out : at the first glance — con- 
nected as it is with the late war 
—he would recognise the Ot- 
toman, and bring himself to an 
anchor at the wished for Porte. 
Thousands of our commonest household furniture 
may, by our rules, be made 
significant of their respective 
uses. The specimen here 
given of what Horace calls 
"aspera militige " — the Mi- 
litia roughs — immediately 
points out its use as a 
muster 'd spoon ! 

What can more plainly, 
and, at the same time, more 
touch ingly explain its pur- 
pose than the "half-blind" 
we give in the margin. The 



combined genius of all the designers in the world 



MARLBOROUGH HOUSE. 203 

could not, it is our humble opinion, produce any- 
thing better adapted for the purpose. 

In one of our designs, we have taken the "con- 
ventional forms " doctrine as a guide. The favour- 
ite rule of the " Tasters General " we have men- 
tioned. How they reconcile this with paintings 
and engravings, we cannot say — perhaps they don't 
— so that, some day, we may hope to see at the 
Royal Academy the conventional form of a Man 
in the Portrait of a Gentleman, so seldom left out 
in the Catalogue of Works of Art exhibited there. 
However, to return to our subject. We give a 
design for a towel-horse, in 
the conventional form of that 
quadruped — the back being 
slightly lengthened (an al- 
lowed license in convention- 
alities), in order to accommodate the towels. We 
would suggest that the animal should be painted a 
bright blue, picked out with red spots ; but, of 
course, if the furniture of the apartment were 
diffei'ent, the article would be tinted otherwise — 
green and buff, &c. 

We should be very grateful if any one could 
show us a design for a peer-glass frame that more 




204 



MARLBOROUGH HOUSE. 




clearly shows its object than the one we give. One 
can see, without the need 
of a moment's reflection, 
the purpose for which it 
is designed. We sug- 
gest, too, the insertion of 
the reflective power — in 
the shape of a mirror — 
into the head of the 
towel-horse, which would thus become a cheval- 
glass as well. 

But, joking apart, what is the necessity for the 
great cry that is being raised against the taste that 
has prevailed for years ? 

The man who labours in the crowded city, and 
who, though he loves, possesses no garden, may 
not he adorn his walls with paper that is trellised 
with roses? If not, how shall he remember the 
beauty of the green fields, sighing — 



'■' Oh, but to breathe the breath 
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet, 
"With the sky above my head 
And the grass beneath my feet !" 



Will your conventional form of arose — (some- 



MARLBOROUGH HOUSE. 205 

thing like the architectural ones of the Tudors, I 
take it, resembling an open artichoke — and even 
that sat upon and flattened— more than anything 
I know,) will that satisfy him ? will it remind him 
even of the humblest dog-rose? 

If the light of the window falsifies the lights and 
shadows of the paper, is there no mental shadow 
that that cheerful trellis of flowers drives away? 
Why, it reminds him of his children, with whom it 
is a pet paper, whence they pick fancied nosegays, 
and whose bright-hued birds they feed with ima- 
ginary dainties. 

Let us each enjoy our own choice; do not 
taboo and anathematize so cruelly. Shall I cut 
Battles, my old friend and fellow clerk, because, 
in the little villa at Hornsey which he has fitted 

up for Mrs. B that is to be, the paper is 

an ever-recurring shepherd and ditto-ess sitting 
under an arch of trees surrounded by three sheep 
(though they, for the matter of that, are conven- 
tional, and unlike Nature enough to satisfy even 
Marlborough House) ? Shall I never again set 
my foot within Smithers's door, because, if I do, 
I must tread upon scrolls and festoons, which 
ought to be unpleasant walking? For my part, I 
never feel uncomfortable when walking on them — 



206 HAKLBOROTJGH HOUSE. 

/ do not feel as if I were risking my neck among 
the inequalities of the flourishes; I suppose it is 
that my eye is not that of an artist. Well, " where 
Ignorance — " say I ! 

Why do you cry out against imitations ? When 
loved ones leave us, we have their likenesses ; if 
Ruggles' fallen estate permits him not to have 
silver spoons, shall he refuse Albata and forswear 
Nickel ? Must he despise engravings because they 
are only imitations of the original painting ? 

Oh ! may not poor Mary, the cook, wear the 
baker's little " affection's offering," a glass brooch, 
because it is intended to look (I will not say, 
because it looks, for it doesn't) like an emerald ? 

Spare the brass watch-guard of the shopman 
out on Sunday — out of kindness, spare that ; but, 
oh ! for decency's sake, do not take off that article 
of apparel which Fanny Fern distinguishes by a 
name which, on this side the Atlantic, is the 
familiar for a youthful Richard. Spare it, we say, 
for decency's sake, although it may be (and we 
guess, from the absence of cuffs and sleeves, it is) 
an imitation, a sham, a make-shift ! 

Will you strip the neat little milliner of her 
pretty muslin dress, because the pattern consists of 
roses that are not conventional, and is pinned with 



MARLBOROUGH HOUSE. 207 

a brooch that is not silver ? We protest against 
such conduct. 

Must we see beauty only through your spec- 
tacles ? Do you think that the savages of Captain 
Cook's discoveries were happier and better when 
they learnt to despise glass beads and gaudy ban- 
dannas ? 

We beseech you to leave off tearing our old 
tastes to pieces. Do you really mean to say that 
you feel unhappy ; uncomfortable, when you see the 
old erroneous patterns, as you call them, round 
you? If so, Heaven defend us from ever seeing 
with " the eye of an artist/' as the cant phrase is — 
it must be anything but a pleasant look-out— by no 
means a " merry field " of observation ! 

I suppose the Old Masters were wanting in that 
particular ; if not, they must have lived in any- 
thing but peace in their days. Why, then poor 
Bernard Palissy, after all his years of patient toil 
and experiment, was only striving in vain, for when 
he discovered his rare enamels and pottery work, 
he applied it to the making of " vipers and lizards, 
and various creeping beasts so like life, that if any 
one beheld them, he should think he was looking 
upon living things \" False — false taste, my good 
friend Bernard. How I wish you were alive now 



JjllQ MARLBOROUGH HOUSE. 

to take up the quarrel in behalf of the Old Taste. 
You would be just the man to break a lance in her 
quarrel, as bravely as you did in behalf of the 
Theory of Springs ! 

But, my good people, if you will not allow us 
imitations and shams, what will become of the 
world? There's an end of Society — the Great 
Sham ! 'Tis the death-blow of the sham passions 
of the Drama, besides all the Institutions of the 
Land. 

But stay — is there not such a thing as sham 
enthusiasm — sham taste— sham theories ? Can it 
be possible that Marlborough House should be 
accused of these ? Let us hope, in all charity, 
not ! But are you sure you are doing all for 
the best ? 

You will not let Bessie work a brigand in Berlin 
wool, or Lizzie a spaniel in silk ; you strain at a 
gnat, and swallow a camel — refusing the brigand 
embroidered by fair hands, but approving the gro- 
tesque figure — " half man, half beast, and the rest 
bird/'' as an Irishman would call it — with a horned, 
long-eared head, that is not only a satyr, but a 
satire upon man — the finest creation. Your gorge 
rises at the first, but you bolt the latter, horns and 
all! 



MARLBOROUGH HOUSE. 209 

You will not let the child ride astride a stick, or 
mount a rocking-horse. You make him discon- 
tented with the yellow-spotted quadruped that of 
yore delighted him, and raise in his breast a desire 
for the long-tailed, neighing animal that, perhaps, 
after all is not the real thing, but may be only a 
hobby of your own making ! 



A VIGIL. 

The Night is fading slowly 

To the grey approach of Dawn, 

And a silence, still and holy, 

Round about the world is drawn ; 

Yet still I sit and ponder, 

Whde the fire-light fainter gleams, 

And silently I wonder 

What are now my Loved One's dreams :■ 

Of tears at Parting streaming — 

Or of Meeting full of glee : — 

Oh, I know not what She's dreaming, 

But I know She dreams of me ! 

I can view Her in Her slumbers, 
Like a dove within it3 nest, 
While Her lover, waking, numbers 
The hours of Her rest ; 



From Her bosom, gently heaving, 
The breath reluctant slips, 
With a sigh, as if for leaving 
The Eden of those lips — 
That — like the coral, hiding 
'Neath the wave its rosy wreath — 
Disclose with slight dividing 
The pearls that lie beneath. 

And She knows not, I am waking, 
Nor hears the prayer that leaps 
To my lips, the silence breaking — 
" God bless her while She sleeps !" 
The solemn silence breaking — 
The silence deep and still : 
" Oh, sleeping, or awaking, 
God shield my Love from ill V 



UNDER THE SEA. 

She said, " My heart is with the silent dead — 
My heart is buried 'neath the sullen wave, 
That surges o'er the noble and the brave — 
My heart is there !" she said. 

She said, " No idle tears for me be shed. 
Nay, mother, weep not, for I could not tell— 
Ton could not knew — that he was loved so well : 
You must not weep !" she said. 

She said, " Sweet sister, when my breath is sped, 
Clasp my thin fingers — clasp them closely — o'er 
One tress of that red sea-weed from the shore, 
And one pale rose," she said. 

She said, " Around him in his ocean bed 
Sways the red sea-weed, that the Tempest's roar 
Tears up and scatters on the shingly shore. — 
But he sleeps well !" she said. 



UNDER THE SEA. 

She said, " Ah, mother, in his eyes I read 
The love — the truth you could not — could not see, 
When you said ' nay,' he turned — he looked on nie- 
And he was gone !" she said. 

She said, " Despairing o'er the seas he fled— 
Fled o'er the ocean to a foreign shore — 
His gallant vessel will return no more. 
He will not come," she said. 

She said, " Despairing o'er the seas he fled — 
The bark went down amid the silent sea, 
And he will never come again to me — 
I go to him," she said. 

She said, " My heart is with the silent dead — 
My heart is buried with the brave and true, 
But lay my body 'neath the churchyard yew. — 
God bless you all !" she said. 




THE CRY OF THE MOTHERS IN ENGLAND. 

We have given thee our loved ones, 
O'er whose tender youthful years 
We have watched with prayer unceasing, 
And have wept with anxious tears. 

We have given thee our loved ones 
To fight foremost in thy ranks 
On the bloody heights of Inkerman, 
And Alma's gory banks. 

We have given thee, Mother-Country, 
Our best-beloved ones — 
As mothers to a Mother 
Did we trust our noble sons. 

We have given thee our loved ones — 

The ones we least could spare — 

And we thought that thou would' st watch them 

With a mother's earnest care. 



THE CRY OF THE MOTHERS IN ENGLAND. 215 

Thou hast left them to the summer's heat — 
The winter's snows and damp — 
And Cold, and Want, and Sickness 
Have been busy in the camp. 

We have given thee our loved ones, 
The ones we least could spare, 
And thy care has been, oh England ! 
Too unlike a mother's care ! 

We have given thee our loved ones, 
Those who live and those who fell, 
We have given thee our treasures — 
Our sons — but thine as well ! 

We have given thee our loved ones, 
They have fought and fallen for thee. — 
Thou hast erred — yet do us justice 
Ere a greater wrong shall be — 

By our prayers — our sighs — our sorrows, 
By our tears, that fall like rain — 
Oh, spare us — spare the bitter thought 
That they have fallen in vain ! 



THE 

GATE-KEEPER OF THE CITY OF TOMBS. 

" This Life of mortal breath 
Is but a suburb of the life elysiau 
Whose portal we call Death." 

LONGFELLOW. 

While I was making a short stay to recruit my 
health at one of the villages that lie close upon the 
borders of London (villages that will soon cease to 
be villages, for the city is fast swallowing them up), 
I met with a character so sweet, so hopeful, and 
withal so strange, that I cannot help writing this 
record of it. It was like a face out of one of 
Raffaele's paintings — calm and serene, yet not so 
angelic as to be more than human. 

In the village I have mentioned was a cemetery — 
one of those beautiful cemeteries that are now. 



THE GATE-KEEPEB. 217 

thank Heaven, taking the place of the crowded 
city church-yards, planted in the very heart of the 
busy din of life. I do not think that they are 
useful monitors — these city church-yards. 

Does the busy man of the world think of Death 
as he passes them, except as the time when the 
wealthy shall lay down their treasures — it may be 
for him ? During the whole long day, amid all the 
thousands that pass, does one heart grow less 
worldly, even for a moment, at the sight of those 
crowded church-yards — does one man think of any 
God but Mammon ? 

No — I fear, in sober sadness, no ! The swarthy 
Egyptian, in his feasts, placed at the board a skele- 
ton guest. That dark, silent visitor grinned grimly 
over the fruits, and sweetmeats, and flower-wreathed 
bowls of wine : did those revellers by the Nile look 
upon it as Death, or only as they regarded the 
lamps, the cushions, and the garlands — as part of 
the furniture of the feast ? And fired, perhaps, with 
Mareotic wine, Cleopatra may have cast her wreaths 
upon the brown skull, and have twined her smooth, 
marbled arms around the mouldering bones. 

Truly, familiarity breeds contempt : " Alas ! poor 
Yorick !" and we throw down the skull, and think 
of the cap and bells, and merry jest, forgetting that 



218 THE GATE-KEEPER 

such as that skull is he " who rideth upon a pale 
horse"— the King of the City of Tombs. 

But there is no such profanation of solemn things 
in the cemetery, separated so far from the town — 
hearing only a low humming by day — by night 
seeing only the canopy of light hanging over it, as 
the denizens of Heaven may hear and see the stir of 
the life they have left. 

Oh ! calm and reverent places, far from all strife 
and worldliness ! Oh ! gentle Mother Earth, who 
openest thine arms so wide for thy children ! Not 
hither does the Mammon- worshipper come— for 
him the dead have played their parts ; they are 
gone, and he has their treasures — let them be 
buried ; what are they to him ? Not hither come 
such as he, but those who have known sorrow— in 
whose memories the graves of loved ones are still 
green — for whom the dead have not ceased to play 
a part, but are still silent monitors to commune 
with. 

Sorrowful, thoughtful hearts come hither — those 
whom Death has visited, or who think of him as one 
who shall visit all some day — tender, gentle hearts 
come hither . 

Oh ! how solemn is the cemetery, the great City 
of Death in Life — the far-spread encampment of 



OF THE CITY OF TOMBS. 219 

Tombs ! With the green trees and the greener 
grass growing fresh around, the sky soft blue above, 
and the birds so tuneful everywhere — a great 
Pompeii is that City of Tombs ! 

Death is here as at the feast in Egypt, but here 
his presence is felt, and if Nature flings her gar- 
lands on his brow, and twines her fair arms around 
him, it is with sobs of low, soft winds, and with 
tears of the rain and dew ! 

In the midst of the City of Tombs stands the 
church— whither all the inhabitants have once gone 
— where they have parted from their friends of the 
outer world. A sad, strange building is the ceme- 
tery church — a consecrated house of God — conse- 
crated by Bishop and Priest, but within its walls 
never yet has babe been christened, or bride been 
given away. Never there have the faithful eaten 
of the Holy Supper, or the sinful people sought for 
absolution. One solemn service only has that chapel 
in the cemetery known — the Burial of the Dead — 
the last farewell of the living to the departed. On 
its altar never stand the bread and wine, and the 
fair white linen cloth ; but on that table in the 
centre, beneath the dark, trailing pall, lies the 
empty chalice of Life, when for ever "the silver 
cord is loosed, and the golden bowl is broken." 
l 2 



220 THE GATE-KEEPER 

The deep -toned bell in the turret has never 
pealed forth in joy— it says only, slowly and 
solemnly, "Come! come!" And the King and 
the Priest, the Sage and the Poet, the Good and 
the Bad, hear that call, and lay aside their toys and 
baubles, and come to the City of Tombs. 

At the gate of the cemetery, which I have men- 
tioned, lived an old man of some fifty long years, 
grey-headed, bowed a little by the weight of a life 
past. I conjectured him to be the sexton, or gate- 
keeper. 

The place was a favom-ite haunt of mine, and I 
used to wander through the walks, or sit under the 
great spreading yew for hours together; and after 
a few visits I added to the other links that drew 
me thither the friendship of the gate-keeper— Old 
Caleb. He had lived at the cemetery ever since it 
had been opened, and had seen many and many a 
silent inhabitant received into the Great City, whose 
portals he had kept so long. 

This sitting at the doors of Death had given to 
his thoughts a tinge, not so much of melancholy as 
of tranquil resignation : he was like an ancient 
Martyr, or one of those old Pilgrim Fathers whose 
peaceable character forbad them resistance and 
strife, and who therefore fied across the seas, there 
to worship God in tranquillity. 



OF THE CITY OF TOMBS. 221 

AYheu I first became acquainted with him, his 
two suns performed his work, and dug the graves, 
and tended the shrubs and flowers in his stead, 
for he was growing too old and feeble for the 
labour. 

" No, Sir," he said, " I leave it for my two sons. 
I am not equal to it, Sir. My feet are already on 
the brink of Jordan; the water is washing over 
them, and I can even see glimpses of the Land of 
Promise on the other side of the river." 

The old man's language was like that of the 
Puritans — it was modelled after the Bible, the 
very expressions of which he sometimes unwittingly 
used. 

"But why, now that you are growing old," I 
said, " do you not quit this place, and find a snug 
little home, where you will have a more lively and 
pleasant view than this ? Surely it makes you sad 
and melancholy to live always among graves." 

' ' Well, Sir, I hardly think so," he answered ; 
" if it ever makes me sad, it is to see those that 
have buried a father, or a mother, or a child, or 
some dear one. Oh ! and it's a woeful sight, some- 
times, to see them, poor hearts ; but the dead never 
make me feel sad or heavy. It's not five paces 
from my door, Sir, that the minister stands, and 



222 THE GATE-KEEPER 

day after day I hear those hopeful words, ' I am 
the Resurrection and the Life !' I think that an 
old man like I could not live in a better place than 
this, where he can always hear those cheering 
words ! But beside, Sir, there are some graves, 
that I've watched and tended this many a year, that 
would miss me if I was gone. Aye, and I should 
miss them, too, for there are voices in them that 
speak to me of the dead, and warn me to prepare for 
the time that is coming for me too \" 

At this moment a lady in deep mourning came 
towards us, and the old man, apologizing for 
leaving me, went towards her, so I wandered on 
through the cemetery, wondering at the faith and 
patience of one so humble — at that heart, watching 
so tranquilly at the gate of the City of Tombs, 
awaiting until the King, w r ho reigns there, should 
bid him deliver up the keys and turn him to his 
rest ! 

I loitered long among the paths of the cemetery 
that day. Most of the monuments were of the 
usual kind, the broken pillar and the sepulchral 
urn. Why w r ill Christian men return to those old 
emblems of the Heathen World, when we may find 
so many beautiful types of our own to place upon 
the graves of our beloved ? What symbol of Hope 



OF THE CITY OF TOMBS. 223 

is the shattered column, or the urn of dull 
quenched ashes with no latent spark to tell of 
another life ? Why do we so seldom see the cross 
watching over the dead— are we lineal descendants 
of Pontius Pilate, or the High Priest Caiaphas ? 
Because a church, erring, pays worship to the cross, 
shall we cast it away — erring churches pray to the 
same God as we — shall we not have the same 
symbols ? Does our church do its best to hasten 
the time when her erring Sister shall come back to 
her Father's house, or does she only widen the 
breach when she thrusts her from her, and scarce will 
breathe the same air with her ? 

However, if there were heathen monuments in the 
cemetery, there were some few that were beautifully 
touching and simple. There was the old legend, 
" Lord, keep my memory green !" peering out 
through wreaths of shining ivy. 

One of the monuments struck me particularly, it 
was a cross of white marble, in the centre of which 
was a medallion with a bas-relief— a blade of corn 
with a chrysalis attached to it, from which the 
butterfly had just issued and was flying upward. 
Beneath it were the words — "Why seek ye the 
living among the dead ? He is not here, but is 
risen !" 



224 THE GATE-KEEPER 

Further on I came to a grave on which lay two 
wreaths of immortelle— beneath that mound of 
earth slept a poor exile from the " sunny land of 
France." The weeping little wife, Clemence, with 
her English -born child, laid those garlands on the 
mound above him, and spent the poor remnant of 
her store in erecting the wooden cross : the moss 
was green upon it now, and the rain had not spared 
the everlastings, but the poor emigre sleeps well, 
and doubtless his grave is remembered by the little 
grey-haired Frenchwoman, that has her tiny shop 
in Burlington Arcade, and, doubtless, on Sunday 
she will come — walking in the hot sun all through 
the dusty town — and she will sit here — on the 
corner of this slab, and she will pluck up this 
thistle that has sprung up on the mound. "Let 
us spare her the task that will wound her poor 
fingers through the modest faded silk glove— those 
fingers have toil enough in the week — let us do this 
duty for them ; who knows but it may bring a 
blessing \" so musing, I dug up the thistle with my 
stick, and flung it aside. 

The next grave was that of a child of barely two 
years old— not far off I had seen the grave of its 
father, and now I perceived by the inscription that 
it was an only child, " aged 18 months — ' of such is 



OF THE CITY OF TOMBS. 225 

the Kingdom of Heaven V" There in the treasure 
house of earth — in the world's treasury is stored up 
the widow's darling. She had indeed " of her 
penury cast in all that she had/' and is waiting 
patiently until it shall be her time to follow her 
child, when the ripened grain shall be harvested as 
well as the opening bud. 

Oh ! aching mothers heart — oh ! desolate and 
weeping woman, mourn not thy loved one — the 
little innocent child " for of such is the Kingdom of 
Heaven !" 

Not a few of the monuments in the cemetery 
were erected over great men — noble monuments 
that seemed to speak proudly of the dead beneath, 
exhorting all to go forth and become great and 
famous as they. Silent comments are they upon 
the vanity of human life. "Vanitas vanitatum" 
should be written over the gate of the cemetery, 
yet I hardly know, for many sleep here who have 
not lived in vain — whose works are still living 
monuments in the land, striving for the good of 
Man. 

I had just passed the resting place of one of the 

great men of the world, when I came to a grave 

that was evidently tended with great care. Strange 

contrast ! the costly mausoleum of the great man 

l 3 



226 THE GATE-KEEPEE, 

was defiled here and there with the green damp- 
stains, and among its columns the long grass waved 
rank, but on the modest grave beside it was raised 
no urn or sculptured figure — the mound was only 
planted thick with daisies, but carefully did some 
loving hand tend and weed that little remembrance 
of the dead, and save one stray forget-me-not that it 
had spared, no flower or weed grew up among the 
wee white daisies that grew so thickly on it. " If 
God so clothe the grass of the field ?" was the only 
legend on the head- stone. 

While I was looking at this, and musing over 
the inscription, the rain came on, and by the time I 
reached the gates a regular shower had set in ; for 
which I was not sorry as it formed a good excuse 
for taking refuge, and enjoying a long talk with old 
Caleb. 

When I entered, he was busily engaged in forming 
a small cross with wire and osier twigs — this he 
told me was for one of the graves that he took 
charge of. " Ah, Sir \" he said, " there isn't a soul in 
the world that cares about that grave now except 
me. It was not long after the cemetery was 
opened, that one of them was buried. It's a sad 
story ! 

"There was a funeral here, Sir, one day, with 



OF THE CITY OF TOMBS. 227 

only two people attending — the poor widow and the 
physician ; he was not a personal friend of the dead 
man I believe, but had attended him through his 
last illness, and it was out of respect for him and 
pity for his wife that he came. He was here after 
the funeral was over, and told me all about them. 
The poor man had been an usher at a large school, 
but the harass and anxiety had brought on a 
complaint of the heart, and after a long illness he 
died, leaving his wife without a friend in the world. 
She had been governess in a private family, but 
was obliged to throw up that situation at her 
marriage, and had then become a teacher in a day- 
school. 

" Hard as the struggle had been, that humble pair 
had lived very happily ; their lodging, though small 
— two little rooms in a back street in Islington — 
had all the appearance of home, the doctor told me, 
Sir. She had made some pencil drawings, and her 
husband had framed them, and there were small 
vases of paper and wax-flowers on the mantel-piece 
— and there were all the little bits of work that a 
woman can always make a room look home-like 
with. Well, Sir, one by one all these disappeared 
during his illness — from the sitting-room at least, 
for she kept the bed-room looking still as it had 



228 THE GATE-KEEPER 

done, lest he should see the alteration — and he did 
not ; for except to his grave he never left his bed. 

" The doctor told me all this, Sir ; he saw from 
the first that the poor gentleman could not live, 
and it was, perhaps, a blessed thing that he died 
when he did. Well, he was buried up yonder, Sir, 
the further side of the yew, beside the little quiet 
path that leads down from the catacombs. His wife, 
poor soul, used to come on Sundays and holidays 
and sit by his grave ; she had planted some flowers 
on it, for she could not afford to put up a stone. 

" She brought the flowers herself one day, soon 
after the funeral — the doctor drove her down in his 
brougham, and after we had planted them for her, 
he and I came down here. He said that the plants 
were the ones that, in better and happier days, had 
stood in their humble window. 

" Ever after, in sunshine and shower, she used 
to come. I don't believe a Sunday, Wednesday, 
or Saturday ever passed without her coming over 
to sit by his grave. One of the plants — a rose — 
died, so I put another there, as much like it as 
I could find in the cemetery. I suppose it wasn't 
wrong, Sir, for the poor lady never knew it, and 
thought it was still the same. 

" Poor lady ! she seemed so lone and desolate- 



OF THE CITY OF TOMBS. 2.29 

like at times, that it made my heart ache to see her. 
She would come in and sit down sometimes, for she 
had a weary long way to go, and she spoke so 
gently, and was so grateful for any little thing one 
did for her! 

" Well, Sir, this could not go on long. He died 
early in the spring — almost before the spring, and 
by the autumn she was worn to a shadow, poor 
heart ! and I began to think she was not for staying 
long among us ; and sure enough, at last her visits 
ceased, and three weeks after, her iuneral came. 
The girls of the school attended her— their mis- 
tress, 1 suppose, thought it would look right and 
proper, and would tell well for the school; so they 
came, and some of the girls cried bitterly. I sup- 
pose she was a kind teacher — she must have 
been. 

"The doctor was there, Sir; he told me, after- 
wards, that the poor lady had not died of any 
regular disease : he said he had been a physician 
thirty years, and had always denied that people 
could die of what's called a broken heart, but 
he should never say so again, after seeing her 
death. 

" You may guess, Sir, that now nobody ever 
came to tend their grave, so I took the task upon 



230 THE GATE-KEEPER 

myself, for the sake of the pale, melancholy face 
that I missed on Wednesdays and Saturdays for a 
long time after. I have planted the mound with 
flowers every Spring since, and I twined some white 
jessamine over a cross, like this one I'm making, 
but it has fallen to pieces now, and I thought I 
would make a new one before it was too far gone. 
There, Sir," he added, pointing to a little picture 
on the wall, " that was the poor lady's doing. She 
left the doctor all her little treasures, and he gave 
me that as a keepsake of her. Poor heart ! and 
yet she doesn't need pity, for she had nothing to 
care for left. She's gone ' where the wicked cease 
from troubling, and the weary are at rest.' She 
died in God's good time, and the doctor told me 
she had struggled long and hard ; but the wolf 
was at the door — his shadow was on the threshold, 
and her sight had begun to fail her, so that if she 
had lived, he said, she would have had to give up 
her situation, and go into an asylum. Ah, Sir, 
e the righteous are taken away from the evil to 
come/ and we wonder why it is that such good 
people die so soon." 

I went up to the picture and looked at it : it 
was not a work of art — it was only a sketch in 
the usual style of ladies' drawings — a stiff little 



OF THE CITY OF TOMBS. 231 

bunch of heartsease and roses, tied with an im- 
possible bow of ribbon ; but it was with a sigh that 
I turned away, and not with a smile, for I was 
thinking how unevenly the good things of life 
are divided. The frame of the picture — the hus- 
band's work — appeared to be a slate-frame, neatly 
carved, and painted black. 

Beside this picture, there was a print of the 
Crucifixion and the Ascension, and a series of 
wood-cuts — copies of Holbein's " Dance of Death." 

" I got them, Sir/' Caleb told me, in answer to 
my inquiry, " out of an old paper called ' The 
Mirror.' They seemed such good thoughts of 
Death's going everywhere ; though I fancy they 
should not have made him so hideous. You see, 
Sir, J've got my favourite text. One of my boys 
learnt for some time at the stone-cutter's yonder, 
so I made him print it out for me on a piece of 
stone." 

He pointed out to me a small marble block on 
the mantel-piece, on which was printed in black 
letters with red capitals, the text, "I am the 
Resurrection and the Life !" Caleb had now 
finished the osier cross, and laid it aside, say- 
ing: 

" There, Sir, that's for one of the graves that 



232 THE GATE-KEEPEE, 

I look after ; but there are others beside, and not 
a few, that will miss me when Fm gone — when 
my own grave will want weeding and tending too ! 
There's a lady that left in her will that no stone 
should be erected over her, ' for/ she said, ' when 
my children cease to care about me, and neglect 
my grave, it may fall to decay altogether, for there 
will be no one that will care to know where I am 
laid then. But as long as my children love me, 
they will plant flowers over my grave !' Her 
youngest daughter comes here often, Sir, a pretty 
young lady, about seventeen, and she has asked me 
to see that her mother's grave is not neglected 
while she is away. There's seldom any other of 
the children here — they are grown up, and have 
homes and children of their own ; but it's but 
little excuse,- I think, for neglecting their mother's 
resting-place." 

By this time the shower had ceased, so I bade 
the old man "good-night," and returned home, 
thinking of grey-headed Age among the tombs, 
tending, with feeble hands, the graves of the 
dead. 

Not many days after, I went again to the 
cemetery, and found the old man in one of the 
paths, training flowers over a monument on one 



OF THE CITY OP TCMBS. Z66 

of the graves. I stood talking to him, waiting 
until he should have finished, as he wished, he 
said, to show me one or two of the graves under his 
care. When he had twined the rose carefully, so 
as not to hide the inscription, " Our friend Lazarus 
sleepeth. Lord, if he sleep, he shall do well \" he 
turned to leave, saying : 

"I think, Sir, some of the words of Scripture 
are better than the fine verses they write over 
some folks. I always think these are very good ; 
they make one think of the time when they were 
spoken— just before the liaising of Lazarus, which 
was a type, I think you call it, Sir, of the Raising 
of the Dead that is to be at the end of the world. 
Look there, Sir, there is another of my tasks," he 
added, stopping at another grave. 

It was that of a young officer who had died 
of fever while quartered in the Tower. On the 
head-stone hung a wreath of withered flowers, and 
a few roots of primrose and lily of the valley were 
planted on the mound. 

" It was a grand funeral, Sir, when that young- 
man was buried. His father, and brothers, and all 
the family came here, and the hearse and carriages 
were crowded with plumes, and they buried him 
with all the pomp that could be ; and the next 



234 THE GATE-KEEPER 

day the real mourner came ! She was, I should 
fancy, a poor milliner, or needlewoman, from the 
looks of her. She wasn't at the funeral — perhaps 
she wasn't known to his family ; but he had been 
all the world to her, poor fallen creature ! But 
stay, here she comes, Sir ; we had best go and leave 
her here — shall we?" 

As he spoke, I saw a girl coming up the path : 
she was evidently, as Caleb said, one of those poor 
women who live by the needle. Who knows the 
history of her love — hopeless, surely, if not, as 
is more probable, sinful? Is it Sinful Love now, 
oh, great Moral World ! that watches over that 
silent tomb, and tends those few poor blossoms ? 
and he who sleeps beneath, perchance, never 
thought of the truth, and depth of the wealth 
of love poured forth for him by her who is, per- 
haps, the only one in the world who cares for 
him, and the heart that he deceived may be 
the only one in which his death has left a void. 
Is it Sinful Love now, or is it purified and chas- 
tened by Death ? 

We went away silently, and left the poor girl 
to visit the dead in peace. As we reached the end 
of the path, I turned : she was kneeling — as if 
crushed and bowed down — beside the grave. 



OF THE CITY OF TOMBS. 235 

" Poor soul \" said Caleb, " she will stay like 
that for hours, and then she goes away so sad 
sometimes, and sometimes she seems as if she 
were mad with grief. Ah, Sir, you may meet 
'men possessed with devils coming out of the 
tombs' now — the devils of Remorse, Grief, and 
Despair. 

" In that same grave, Sir, is buried a little child 
too. I will tell you how it was. Not many 
months after the funeral, I found on the grave a 
little dead babe ; it was wrapped in a shroud, and 
laid carefully down among the flowers j it seemed 
as if it was asleep. I guessed at once whose it 
was, but when the inquest came, I said nothing 
about it, for I knew she was not guilty of its 
death, but had brought it there to lie with him 
she had loved so well. Well, Sir, at the inquest, 
the doctors pronounced that the child had never 
breathed, but had been born dead ; so the body 
was given me to bury. 

" I do not think I did wrong in laying it in the 
grave where I had found it, bathed in dews, as 
if in the tears the morning had let fall over that 
little, deserted, withered bud, lying among the 
pretty flowers. For some time, I missed the poor 
girl, but I often longed to be able to see her, and 



Zdb THE GATE-KEEPER 

tell her that she could come in safety to see 
where her child was laid. Some time passed by. 

"At last, one evening, she came. I saw her 
creeping in almost stealthily, so I went up towards 
her : I could see her tremble as I drew near her, 
but I said in a low voice to her, ' Do not fear ; 
the child is buried where it was found — in its 
father's grave, and no one knows who placed it 
there, or that it is buried where it is. Be of good 
cheer V I wish I could have added ' thy sins be 
forgiven thee V but I am but a poor sinful creature 
myself, and I could not say so, though I hope and 
believe it. 

" Oh, Sir, it did my heart good to see the 
grateful look she gave me with her soft blue eyes, 
filled with tears. The next time I went to the 
grave, there was a root of lilies of the valley 
planted there. I knew the meaning of those little 
pale flowers well. 

" Oh, Sir, what a sad, sad life mine would be, 
amid so much sorrow and misery, if it were not 
for those words I hear so often. Through all the 
wailing and sobbing, I hear that cheering message, 
' I am the Resurrection and the Life V It reminds 
me of a trumpet-call like that which shall one day 
call forth the dead. 



OF THE CITY OF TOMBS. 237 

" There, Sir, is the grave of a little child of 
about four years old — a pretty grave, Sir \" and so 
it was, a simple cross, with only the name "Bessie" 
upon it — a touching memorial. 

" Now, Sir, I like a grave that has no more 
writing on it than that— just a few words or so. 
I saw on the paper once, Sir, that some great 
writer when he was a boy, and was looking at the 
graves in a country church-yard, asked where the 
wicked people were buried, for the tomb-stones said 
that all who lay there were good. 

" Ah, Sir, when he grew up to a man, he would 
know why e always speak well of the dead — it's a 
kind of falsehood that is almost religious I think, 
Sir, and right. I trust when he died some one 
was good enough to do the same by him when he 
was buried \" 

I told Caleb that the man who had made that 
remark did not need a false epitaph. " iEli, vetusto 
nobilis ab Lamo V we are not jesting — the words of 
Horace to his friend come to our lips spontaneously. 
Gentle Elia— kind-hearted Charles Lamb. Of all 
men thou least didst need a laboured falsehood to 
deck thy grave-stone. Thy very name upon the 
tomb breathes peace and goodness, thou disprover 



238 THE GATE-KEEPER 

of the Great Poet's words — " what's in a name?" 
Loving- and tender to thy fellow-creature — Good 
worthy soul ! Do we not still keep the little root 
of forget-me-not that we plucked from thy grave in 
Edmonton church-yard, pointed out to us by one 
who had been thy friend and lover. 

Let them engrave upon the head-stone what 
praise they will, they hardly exceed the truth of thee 
— thou gentlest of gentle hearts. 

Do we not remember, too, seeing long ago the 
fine white-headed old man who wrote thine epitaph, 
to whose pen we owe the best English Dante as well 
as the sweet lines inscribed above thy grave ! 
Farewell great-hearted Elia, sleep in peace ! 

Caleb now drew my attention to a monument of 
some beauty which we were now approaching. It 
consisted of a square pedestal about four feet in 
height — each side being between two or three feet 
broad. On the top were carved very delicately 
wreaths of heartsease, cypress and other emblemati- 
cal flowers, while from the centre arose a plain 
" cross of faith" (as it is called, I believe, by archi- 
tects), about two feet high. 

In the front was a medallion in which a child 
was represented as sleeping quietly at the foot of a 



OF THE CITY OF TOMBS. 239 

cross — its safeguard against a lion and a serpent 
which were prowling round, while a dragon was 
flying away discomfited. 

Underneath were the following lines, taken, I 
suppose, from some of the old monkish rhyming 
Latin poems. 

" Serva, Jesu, me jacentem 
Ante crucem, dormientem : 
Nam me lsedere hie stratum 
Nee dolores nee peccatum 
Nee serpentes nee dracones 
Possunt, nee scevi leones. 
Itadiis protende lucis 
Mihi, Jesu, umbrani crucis !" 

The inscription told that the sleeper was a 
curate who died amid his labours and patient 
strivings in the cholera time. 

"That was what I wanted to show you, Sir," 
said Caleb, " I thought as it was a strange tongue, 
and you told me you had been in foreign countries, 
(I had described Pere la Chaise to him) you might 
be able to tell me the meaning." 

This I promised to do, and after I had copied the 
epitaph into my pocket-book, we returned to the 
gate-house. 



240 THE GATE-KEEPER 

While I was there, I turned the Latin into the 
following English. I purposely adopted an anti- 
quated and quaint style, in order that my verses 
might be in better keeping with the old monkish 
rhymes. 

" Guard me, Jesu, in thy keeping, 
At ye crosse foot calmly sleeping, 
For to me, reposing here, 
Sin ne sorrow draw anear, 
Serpent, worm, ne lyon stern ! 
By thy beams on high that burn 
Cast thy crosse its sweet shadbwe 
Over me that sleep below !" 

These I copied into the blank fly-leaf of one of the 
old man's few books. Caleb was quite delighted 
with them, but more pleased was he when at my 
next visit T made him a present of his favourite text 
carefully illuminated on a card. I was at the time 
very fond of copying old missals, and having 
become rather expert, I designed an appropriate 
border and succeeded in making a tolerable illumi- 
nation. Old Caleb was greatly delighted with this, 
and begged me to accept in return, the marble 
block which his son had carved, which I did to 
please the old man, and there it stands now on my 



OF THE CITY OF TOMBS. 241 

bed-room mantel-piece — a remembrance of the old 
man, who so long sat communing face to face with 
death, and to whose ear there was no message more 
cheering than the words "I am the Resurrection 
and the Life !" 

Alas ! time grew short, and my stay came to an 
end rather more suddenly than I expected, as I 
was called away upon business, and for some time I 
saw no more of the cemetery or my friend Caleb. 

Two summers ago I had occasion to visit the 
neighbourhood of the cemetery again. As soon as 
I had accomplished the purpose which called me 
thither, I started to pay a visit to old Caleb. 

The cemetery was some mile and a half from the 
inn at which I had put up, and I amused myself on 
the way with thinking about the old man, whether 
he would remember me, and what stories he would 
have to tell. Strange, that thinking of him as the 
gate-keeper of the City of Tombs, I never for a 
moment remembered the possibility of his having 
been called by Death to give up his Watching and 
go to his dwelling with the other silent inhabi- 
tants. 

When I reached the door of his house, I saw a 
little sunny-haired child, standing in the doorway. 



242 THE GATE-KEEPER 

The sight of him, where I used always to meet the 
old man, struck me first with the idea that he might 
be dead. Alas ! so it was ! He had been some 
time in the grave, and his son now occupied his 
place, and the child I had seen in the doorway was 
old Caleb's grandson. 

They spoke of him tenderly— the wife with a 
trembling lip and quivering eyelid — and they were 
pleased to learn that I was "the gentleman that 
painted father the picture he was so fond of." 
And there it hung still, sure enough, in a plain gold 
beading ; and on the other side of the window was 
the pencil drawing of heartsease and roses— the 
work of the poor governess. 

I asked them to let the child show me where they 
laid the old man, but they said it was needless — his 
grave was close by. He had asked them to bury 
him near the gates at which he had sat so 
long. 

The place was well chosen— it was directly in 
front of the entrance, and the white surplice of the 
priest almost touched it as he passed by, uttering 
his cheering welcome to the new-comers to the 
great City of Tombs. 

The grave was planted thickly with roses and 



OF THE CITY OF TOMBS. 243 

other flowers ; on the head-stone the inscription ran 
as follows : 

IN MEMORY OF 

CALEB ANDREWS, 

FOR MASY YEARS GATE-KEEPER OF THIS CEMETERY. 
OBIIT JAN. 30, MDCCC****. 

" I am the Resurrection, and the Life ! saith the Lord." 
"The grass withereth, the flower fadeth, but the word of Our 

God shall stand for ever." 

And the flowers were fading, for Autumn was 
nearly over. 

So applicable was the text, that I thought it was 
at the old man's desire that it was placed upon his 
tomb ; but his son told me that one of the clergy, 
who officiated at the cemetery, erected the stone at 
his own expense, and it so happened that I met 
with him while I was there, and entered into a long- 
conversation with him about Caleb. 

The old man had been calm to the last — speaking 
sensibly of everything. He died of no disease, save 
natural decay and of his mourners, the most were 
the graves he had tended, for they showed plainly 
how they missed Caleb's care and tending. 

I stopped once more at his resting-place as I 
went out, and picked a half- withered flower to keep 
with another treasure that I have spoken of already. 
m 2 



244 



THE GATE-KEEPER. 



Ah ! what a lesson was there to be learnt from 
that patient Life that sat so calmly at the feet of 
Death, until that Spectral King stooped down and 
lifted it into his bosom to sleep ! 

The watch is over, the duty done ! The keys are 
given into other hands. The grey hairs have gone 
down to the grave, when their time was ripe ; and 
the gate-keeper of the City of Tombs has folded his 
arms and closed his eyes after his long vigil, and 
turned him to his rest. 

Truly, " Man goeth forth to his work and to his 
labour until the evening V 




FALLEN IN BATTLE! 

Mournfully trailing, 
The dark banner sweeps, 
While deaf to our wailing 
Calmly he sleeps ! 
Calmly he sleeps — 
'Mid our grief unavailing ; 
"While the dark banner sweeps 
Mournfully trailing ! 



f sounding, 
The psalmody floats 
Thro' the darkness surrounding 
With funeral notes, 
With funeral notes — 
In wild sadness abounding — 
The dirge sadly floats 
Solemnly sounding ! 



FALLEN IN BATTLE. 

Fitfully gleaming, 

And pallid with fear, 

The torch-light is streaming 

Over his bier ! 

Over his bier 

The corpse-candles beaming, 

Micker and veer — 

Fitfully gleaming ! 

Dolefully tolling, 
The death-bell's deep boom 
Loudly is knolling 
Thro' darkness and gloom ! 
Thro' darkness and gloom 
Its notes, sadly rolling, 
Echo and boom 
Dolefully tolling ! 

Silently leave him — 

His battles are done ; 

Heaven receive him ! 

His rest is begun. 

His rest is begun — 

Then why should we grieve him ? 

He has fought — he has won ! 

Silently leave him ! 



- TO-BACCHUS. 

" ■ eviov re itvq 

(piXavXovg t' rft>kOi& Movcrag." 

ANTIGONE, line 9i 
' He incensed the Bacchic fire and the pipe-loving Muses." 



Come— mighty inspiration — come ! 
By that you know I mean a 
Good puff of smoke, for I " dulci 
Nunc meditor avena !" 



I sing not now the juice of grape 
Or chant the praise of Liber. 
Him Horace better sings — that old 
Falernian imbiber. 



And yet I love the Jovial God, 
Nor grudge him a libation, 
Tor to his worship this my theme 
Has some approximation. 



248 TO-BACCHUS. 



Our shout, for instance, is alike, 
I do not cry " Iacche" — 
But with a pleasure infinite 
I'll join in "Io Baccy." 



The God has bowls of gems and gold, 
(Some plated, though — a clear sham), 
And so have I ! — but then they're made 
Of china, clay, or meerschaum ! 



He "fills the bowl " with Claret— Hock, 
Champagne, or Mancanilla ! 
And so do I ! — but with Returns, 
Bird's-eye, or Latakia ! 



But there the likeness ends, T own— 
And gladly ! — For while nimbly, 
His fumes mount up into the braiu, 
My smoke goes up the " chimbley !" 



THE REASON WHY. 

Noi for Her eyes alone — those clear, dark orbs, 
Whose hazel depths are fathomless as Love — 
Not for Her eyes alone is She so loved, 
Who stirs a holy echo in my heart 
To every word She ntters. — Not for these, 
Nor for the sweet speech flowing from Her lips, 
Whose every tone is nmsic ! — Not for these, 
Nor for Her cheek soft as the ripened peach ! 
Not for Her beauty only do I prize 
The one I love above all other maids ; 
The charm that binds my heart to Her is this — 
Three simple words will tell it — only three — 
I love Her best because " She loveth me." 



"DIXIT INSIPIENS!" 
Seize me — clasp me to thy bosom, oh, my Mistress, Wild 



Joy is but a fickle wanton, and she is not half so fair ! 
E'en when locked in her embraces, rises in the heart a fear 
Lest some change, some sudden sadness, the next instant 
should be here. 

Give me "Wild Despair, who quaffeth rosy wine in one long 

breath — 
What if poison's in the goblet ! Drink — it can but bring us 

Death ; 
Life and Death to me are equal — who can draw the bounding 

line ? 
Death in Life I oft have tasted, and I care not which is 

mine. 

Oh ! let others fear the morrow — what its cares and joys may 

be, 
Little differ joys or sorrows shared by my Despair and me ! 



"dixit insipiens." 251 

When Pandora's mystic casket was by mortal hands thrown 

ope, 
Trust not the old, doting sages, its last inmate was not 

Hope — 
No ! a better far was left us, kept by an unerring fate, 
No ! Despair was its last inmate, Mistress of the desperate ! 

She who recks not of the future, of its troubles and its strife, 
In a " Now " she ever liveth — an eternity of life ! 

Do you ^tremble at her tresses, shuddering at their snaky 

forms ? 
Know you not that Beauty's ringlets Death shall twine with 

living worms, 
And that if they deem them present, they will be by Taney 

brought ? 
Coward ! have them real — 'tis better, then we have no need 

of Thought ! 



A WREATH OF SMOKE. 

A RHAPSODICAL REVERIE OVER OUR NIGHTLY PIPE, 
"EX FUMO DARE LTJCEM." 

" A lone man's companion, a bachelor's friend, a hungry 
man's food, a sad man's cordial, a wakeful man's sleep, and a 
chilly man's fire, Sir ; while for stanching of wounds, purging 
of rheum, and settling of the stomach, there's no herb like 
unto it under the canopy of Heaven." 

"westward ho !" 

nskaragal Chumgunder ! 

Signifying, gentle reader, "he 
who fills with smouldering weed 
. the hollow cane-tube." This is 
the language of the Oudeises, a 
tribe of Guinea, a peculiar race 
of which Ferguson gives an interesting account 
in his " Five Weeks of Fever on the Gold 
Coast." They are, he says, of a darker skin than 




A WREATH OF SMOKE. 253 

the other tribes of those parts ; " their only dress 
being the human hair which grows on their own 
heads (where also they wear it) but their king, (or 
Chowchobber as he is called), adds to this apparel, 
two other items on state occasions — namely, straps 
and studs," but the learned author through some 
oversight does not tell us how this is compatible 
with the fact of his not wearing either trousers or 
shirt. 

But we are wandering. 

Anskaragal Chumgunder ! Come hither and 
bring to me my smoking cap — nay, not the red fez, 
" Persicos odi, puer, apparatus," thou son of an 
incremated father ! — but that other more splendid 
head-gear, even the pale blue, with the maize silk 
embroidery and tassel, that which at the fancy 
fair I purchased. 

Bring hither also my pipe — my hookah, and I 
charge thee to see that the rose-water is pure, 
fresh, sparkling, newly dipped from the fountain of 
the garden of Gul. If thou dost neglect this, may 
dogs sit upon thy father's grave, and cats mollrow 
upon thy mamma's tomb ! 

Under pain of this curse, the intelligent black 
brings to me the required articles — I say intelligent, 
because a casual observer might believe mine 



254 A WREATH OP SMOKE. 

attendant to be a baboon attired for a bal masque ; 
and, therefore, I call him so, because that he 
seemeth to be the connecting link between humanity 
and apishness, if indeed he be not the latter as 
seems not improbable. 

Take forth, oh, Anskaragal Chumgunder, a match 
from yonder box on the mantel-shelf — that box 
whereon is depicted an eminence that suffereth from 
an eruption, even a mountain with the measles, poor 
crater ! which mankind calleth Vesuvius ! 

By the mystic power of friction, oh Ebony ! shalt 
thou ignite the match ; and accend the rich weed in 
the bowl of the hookah therewith. 

So! 

Purra wurr pobble bobble bobble ! 

It is alight, the smoke curleth up, the rose-water 
becometh talkative; it babbleth as a child — purra 
wurr pobble bobble bobble, it waxeth mu- 
sical ! 

Now will I be the Sultan, I will be the Khaleefeh 
Haroon al Rasheed, and thou, oh offspring of the 
Oudeises, shalt be Mesrour ! 

Take hence these European shoes — bring to me 
my slippers, those of scarlet cloth, adorned with 
golden braid. There — now I am Al Rasheed ! 
And yonder soft-cushioned plump easy chair, shall 



A "WREATH OF SMOKE. 255 

be ray Sultana, — fat is esteemed a beauty by the 
Orientals. "What shall be thy name, oh, light of the 
Harem ! Shall it be Moon-face or Pomegranate- 
cheeks or Lily-nose ? Behold I cast my slipper to 
thee, and thou shalt hold it as a token of love, 
young Gazelle-eyes ! 

Mesrour, pour me out a glass of sherry, and call 
it sherbet. Give it me with a salaam. So ! Now 
rub the black button, that groweth in thy face 
where a nose should be, upon the toe of my slipper. 
Now, I will give thee ten thousand pieces of silver 
to purchase a ship-load of Turkish tobacco withal ! 
Thou shalt answer to me " On my head and mine 
eyes, oh, Commander of the Faithful V Pshaw, you 
black rascal, what if it be only a fourpenny-piece — 
buy me an ounce of bird's-eye. 

Purra wurr pobble bobble bobble. 

Now will I be an Alchemist. I will be Roger 
Bacon, and thou shalt be mine attendant, and my 
hookah shalt thou watch, my magic crucible. 
Beware how thou touchest it, minion, else shalt 
thou be blown up. Dost know, Ebony, that thy 
prototype, meddling with Roger's crucible, was torn 
in pieces by the explosion. On thy life thou 
touchest my hookah : I will blow thee up rarely an 
thou dost. 



256 A WREATH OF SMOKE. 

Yet nay now, I will be Roger Bacon no longer, 
for methinks the devil had him finally. I will be 
Trithemius who was a right worthy Abbot. Give 
me the poker it shall be to me for my crozier. 
Thou, Chumgunder, shall be the spirit, Hudekin, 
who grievously tormented the learned Trithemius. 
Avaunt demon ! else will I exorcise thee, sirrah, 
with my crozier ! 

But stay, shall I be a Rosicrucian — or Paracelsus 
— ay, and thou shalt be mine attendant sprite Azoth 
— yet no I cannot imprison thee in the jewel of my 
ring, thou black diamond ! 

Fill me a glass of sherry : this time it shall be the 
Elixir of Life. See how it shines and sparkles in 
the goblet ! 

Aha — now I have it, I will be Doctor Dee, and 
this wine glass shall be my mystic crystal. Fetch 
me hither my warming-pan, oh, familiar mine ! I will 
transmute a piece thereof into silver, and send to our 
gracious Queen Elizabeth. Stay, let me refer to 
my magic crystal — ha — what do I see in it. 
Wondrous creature— it is a cherubim ! It hath 
wings — truly and legs ! 'Pshaw, it is only a fly in 
the sherry ! 

Purra wurr pobble bobble bobble ! 

I am one of Macbeth' s witches now. " Bubble, 



A WREATH OF SMOKE. 257 

bubble," thou shalt be my caldron, oh hookah ! 
oh Hubble-bubble ! Purra wurr pobble bobble 
bobble ! but no, I am no witch, I am a wizard — for 
am I not a he, and moreover wear no beard as 
witches wont. 

Now I will be a poisoner ! 

" Now I have tied on thy glass mask tightly, 
Can gaze through the faint smoke curling lightly, 
As thou pliest thy trade in thy devil's smithy, 
Which is the poison to poison her, prithee ?" 

I will bury my nose in my wine glass, it shall be 
my glass mask. I will be Saint Croix, and thou, 
oh Anskaragal ! art the fair Brinvilliers — what if 
thou art hideous, Human Jet, and she was lovely, I 
will think of thee that thou representest not her 
physical but her moral conformation, and that was 
black and ugly as thou ! 

Now " what is the poison to poison her prithee ?" 
Hast thou arsenic dissolved in cymbalaria — the 
wond'rous Aqua Tophana, Fair Lady ; or hast thou 
succession powder ? 

No ? Well we do not need the manna of St. 
Nicholas of Barri, or the white unpalpable meal ; 
we can slay her with anchovy of red lead, with 



258 A WREA.TH OF SMOKE. 

pickled french beans of- verdigris, or chocolate of 
death-bearing compound ! 
Oh rare ! 

" To carry pure death in a ear-ring, a casket, 
A signet, a fanmount, a filagree basket !" 

Shall we carry pure death in an impure piece of 
anchovy toast — shall we administer it in the verdant 
pickle ? But let us have a care of the analyzers of 
the Lancet ! 

Fill me my glass, sweet Brinvilliers, we will call 
the sherry hippocrass now or Aqua d'oro, so here is 
to thine eyes, mine angel of darkness ! 

Now is my pipe the retort, wherein we distil the 
deadly poisons. Aha " for the faint smoke curling 
lightly !" 

Purra wurr pobble bobble bobble ! 

Now am I a raging dragon, snorting out fire and 
smoke. See now, Chumgunder ; mount thy famous 
charger " Ten-toes" and prance hither as a St. 
George — in mourning. There, now thrust thy 
lance, that is a tobacco-stopper, into my gaping 
jaws, into the bowl of the hookah. Press the weed 
together— so it shall burn better. Well done, by thy 
father's beard, well done, oh Anskaragal ! 



A WREATH OF SMOKE. 259 

Purra wurr pobble bobble bobble bobble bobble ! 

See what a whiff— truly, I cannot behold thee, 
Ebony, for the smoke I have puffed forth — I have 
it ! I will be a cloud ! What says the poet, 

" I bring fresh showers to the thirsting flowers !" 

Yea, I am a cloud— a nimbus — a hugeous mass of 
vapours! How dost thou, Goodman Nubes? That 
is thee, Ebony! How dost feel — drizzly ? See 
now, Polonius, am I almost in shape of a camel — or 
backed like a weasel, or am I like a whale— very 
like a whale ? 

Yonder moderator lamp with its bright globe 
shall be my sun. Hail, splendid luminary ! Shall 
I lap thee in my vapourings ? 

Purra wurr pobble bobble bobble ! 

Such be my rhapsodies over my pipe. I am a 
king, a sultan, a philosopher, what I will, and my 
negro becometh a marquise, a spirit, a familiar, in 
turn. But enough. Purra wurr pobble bobble 
bobble. I will whiff quietly. I will see visions, 
and dream dreams, while the smoke is curling 
delightfully around, and the rich aroma of the weed 
is floating about me like an atmosphere of Dream- 
land. 



260 A WREATH OF SMOKE. 

Chumgunder, bring hither the punkah. Anska- 
ragal, fetch me the feather fan. Now, when I bid 
thee wave, thou shalt dissipate the cloud that 
contains one vision and I will behold another. 

Purra wurr pobble bobble bobble. 

See, what is that? Why a mop — nay, 'tis a 
palm tree. What a fine gallant beneath it : look he 
hath on a white ruff collar round his neck, and he 
weareth a small black hat and plume, and his trunk 
hose are slashed and his cloak is velvet, and in the 
middle thereof is the print of a muddy foot (and 
that no small one). Beshrew me, if it be not 
Walter Raleigh, and there is talking to him a 
coppery man, who has around his loins an apron of 
feathers, and is bedaubed with ochreous compounds. 
He is Ma-ra-to-pa, " the whistling eagle," and see, 
he smoketh. His pipe-stem is a long reed, and the 
head is of stone carved strangely, See, the Sachem 
offereth his pipe to the traveller. Tuff, puff, puff ! 
The good knight is pleased, the fragrance tickles 
his palate — but hold ! 

Ha ! he waxeth pale, he becometh squeamish — 
truly he is very sick. Wave ! Wave an thou 
lovest me, Anskaragal, let us not see him longer, 
lest it remind us of the time when we crossed the 
channel last autumn ! 



A WREATH OF SMOKE. 261 

Purra wurr pobble bobble bobble ! 

Another vision ! Good den to thee again, noble 
Sir Walter, it rejoices me to see thee better. What, 
hast thou overcome thy repugnance ? Well done, 
brave knight, puff away if it please thee — but — 
hey, hi, hoy, whoo, stay, stop ! 

By Jove he's done it ! 

Sir Walter, thou must discharge the villain ; he 
hath soused thy gentle person from head to foot 
with water; yet hold thy hand, for the knave 
thought that thou wast afire, smouldering with 
spontaneous combustion. Go and change thy 
raiment, friend, and do thou, Anskaragal, wave ! 
Let the noble gentleman perform his toilet in peace. 

Purra wurr pobble bobble bobble ! 

America again, a fine forest, pardie ! What 
think you, friend Humboldt, of that tree by way of 
timber? Not more than twenty feet in girth. Why 
it must have been growing when Columbus landed, 
what think you, worthy Baron, it will make a fine 
chapter in Cosmos, eh ? 

Look ye — there's a cactus — only fifteen feet high, 
why you might poke one of your learned eyes out 
with a single spine of it. See there's a mimos .... 

Ah — booooooo — oh ugh ! Lord bless my soul ! 

Here is no less than a dozen of those half- 



ZOZ A -WREATH OF SMOKE. 

naked savages jumping upon me from behind a 
tree. 

Oh Lord ! Here, you gentleman with the 
curtain ring in your nose, just take your foot off my 
small ribs and remove your tomahawk from such 
close proximity with my head, and keep in mind, 
next time you spring upon a stranger from behind a 
tree, to ask him first if he be nervous. My good 
Sir, with the fish bone through your ear, do not, I 
beg, regard my capillary attractions so covetously — 
if you want a scalp take the Baron's — his is nice and 
soft and white, while mine is only a sort of rusty 
bay. Oh ! you won't, eh ? Pardon me, my dear 
Humboldt, if I leave thee in this predicament, but 
self-preservation is the first law of Nature ! 

Wave, Anskaragal, yet stay — no ! It is all right, 
he is not handling his tomahawk with savage 
intentions. No — it's a pipe of peace. Here Baron, 
the Great Buffalo's tail is a mighty chief, and 
requests thee to take a whiff. Here goes — puff, 
puff, purra wurr pobble bobble bobble ! Wave, 
Ebony, the savage hath his pipe hollowed out in his 
tomahawk, and it delighteth me not to smoke out 
of it, for he may have brained mine uncle with the 
same weapon not an hour ago. Wave ! Enough of 
the calumet ! 



A WKEATH OF SMOKE. 263 

Purra wurr pobble bobble bobble ! 

Truly I am in the Celestial Empire now. Cotne 
hither Pih-Keo-Lin-Shang, I would talk with thee. 
Faugh ! offer me not thine insidious opium, give 
me a pipe of tobacco, fill it from thine embroidered, 
pouch. 

There, now I am seated, Haou— signifying " art 
thou well?" Tsiug, which means "hail." Let my 
pipe have a bamboo stem, I pray thee. Now give 
me a cup of tea — there — put a few leaves in my 
cup, Yung Chow, and pour in boiling water upon 
them, and I beseech thee keep thy thumb out of 
the cup, or there will be no room for the liquid, for 
in truth, it is but a porcelain thimble. It is bitter 
but nevertheless pleasant. Let us converse, my 
good Pih-Keo &c. Tell me now what call you those 
two birds yonder with forked tails ? Who may be 
those three stout gentlemen passing over that bridge 
there by the willow ? Truly a magnificent tree 
is that which overshadows thy dwelling, its branches 
seem as though loaded with plum-puddings. "Who 
shall bid yon fisherman to bring hither of his finny 
spoil ? Dost not think, friend Pih-Keo &c, that, 
if thou hadst caused the palings in front of thy 
mansion to be laid down in a straight line instead 
of their present zig-zag, thou wouldst have 
money ? 



264 A WREATH OF SMOKE. 

Verily, of all places, put me down in the land of 
" Golden water-lilies" and place a pipe between my 
lips ! What a sensible people it is ! It must be a 
Celestial Empire where among the seven lawful 
reasons for getting rid of a wife, the third is talka- 
tiveness. 

Put a little cap on my head with a " button a- 
top," like the grand Panjandrum's brain-shader, I'll 
be a Chinese and cultivate a pig-tail. Til begin 
talking Chinese this moment, hark ! 

" Kivo yeli noo-puh yay. Ying-keih-le ke yay." 

" I'll speak my part at once, cue and all \" as Quince 
saith to Flute the" bellows-mender, but till my queue 
shall grow I will wear an eel-skin for the nonce. 

But best friends must part, Pih-Keo-Lin-Shang, 
so farewell ! And see what a valedictory card the 
Mandarin hath presented to me, all crimson and 
gold leaf— thirteen feet long by eight wide, see in 
what repute the Seric worthy holds me, for know 
you not that the Chinese measure their compli- 
mentary cards by the respect they feel for you ? 
Wave, Chumgunder, wave ! 

Purra wurr pobble bobble bobble ! 

Ho ! for the land of black puddings and waltzing ! 

Wie befinden sie sich ? How dost find thyself, 



A WKEATH OF SHORE. 265 

Karl. Give me thine hand ! Now do I see that 
thou art after mine own heart, for while one hand is 
extended in friendship, behold is not the other 
groping in thy pocket for thy tobacco pouch ? 

Give me also a pipe, a long-tubed china-headed 
pipe. Let me have depicted on the bowl the face of 
1 die schone Trudchen/ or a green-coated, booted 
Jager. Let it have a tassel, I pray you, or it is no 
pipe of mine. There, now am I a true German : let 
me have a glass of schnaps. Thanks no, I'm afraid 
if I partake of Saur-Kraut it will destroy the 
illusion. Shall I troll thee a Vaterland song ? 
Good evening to the good Frau and the kleine 
Madchen — knitting, of course! How busy the 
fingers are here, in this lovely land. Oh ! this 
glorious blue Rhine, with its —steins and its 
—bergs ! 

Invest me in a cap, with a dangling tassel and a 
long straight peak slightly retrousse as my nose 
(I am a German now), on the tip of which nose 
stick me a piece of plaster. 

So ! Am I not a fine Bursch ? Sa — sa you are 
a dumm Kopf, my friend ! Ha, art offended ? Go 
to — let us have beer, I will drink a duel with thee — 
or pad thyself all over save thy face, get thee thy 
sword, and I will fight thee. 



SOD A WREATH OF SMOKE. 

Ach leider ! I begin to feel my valour ooze away — 
this padded hero seemeth fierce ! Wave, Anska- 
ragal! I will resign all— the cap and tassel, and 
the plaster on my snub nose ! Wave ! Anything 
for a quiet life ! 

Purra wurr pobble bobble bobble ! 

Truly it is a musical sound the bubble of the 
water in my hookah. It is better than a babbling 
visitor, for it speaketh not unless spoken to. 

Purra wurr pobble bobble bobble ! 

But whither will not my tobacco-visions carry 
me ? Stick a paper cigarette in my mouth, clap a 
sombrero on my brain-box, roll me in a cloak, hang 
a rapier by my side — carefully, I beseech you, lest 
it get between my legs and trip me up — call me 
Don Pedro, and Til tell you about bull-fights and 
mantillas. 

Or put a potato in one hand, and a dudheen in 
the other, clepe me Pat and I'll ask " yez to thread 
on the tail av me coat \" 

Or wrap a towel round my head, put me tobacco 
in a hole in the ground, and let me draw the 
smoke up through a reed introduced through the 
clay, and Fll worship Buddha and talk Hindostanee. 

Or roll me up a cabbage leaf, and hide me away 
to smoke it surreptitiously in a hay-loft or hen-house 



A WREATH OP SMOKE. 267 

witli much nausea and tribulation of spirit, and I'll 
call myself a British school-boy. 

Or stick a quid in my cheek, and call me Jack, 
and shiver my timbers ! Pll tell you about the Blue- 
jackets and the Lancaster-gun battery. 

Or give me Caftan and Calpac, and Pll be a 
Persian, and smoke a tchibouque ; or a Turk, and 
wield a narghili. 

Purra wurr pobble bobble bobble ! 

Here am I in my Lusthaus, on the banks of a 
canal in Holland; is it not a gilded ginger-bread, 
beautiful, little summer-house ? Lo ! my feet are 
webbed as I'm a Dutchman ! Am I broad enough 
in the beam ? No ? Then fetch me a pillow ! Get 
me a herring, I will eat, fill me up Hollands or 
Schiedam. Light me my pipe. 

Purra wurr pobble bobble bobble ! 

What thousands of smokers could I not enume- 
rate ! And if many be they that smoke many are 
the pipes that be smoked. Long-tubed, snake-like, 
musical, such as thou, my hookah ! Scented cherry 
or slender bamboo, white willow, or what you will — 
a fawn's foot silver-shod or amber and mother- 
of-pearl — oh ! innumerable are the varieties of 
stems ! 

But the bowl— pure meerschaum, feather-light — 
n 2 



£68 A WEEATH OF SMOKE. 

blushing (as the fragrant weed burns bright) as pink 
as a maiden's cheek at the first spark of love. 

Then how carefully have we watched it as it 
changed to that soft rich brown below ! How 
anxiously have we noted the regular white line 
above ! Oh ! how well dost thou become thy silver 
mounting ! 

But clay — shall we neglect thee — common clay, 
potter's clay, homely clay, our brother ? No — hail 
to the long straws, the big-bowled churchwardens, 
the Mile- cutties and the swelling outline of the 
Gam bier ! 

Oh ! the numberless devices of clay ! The skull 
with opal-like eyes — the Bacchus with green enamel 
vine-leaves and prseternaturally white eye-balls — 
Uncle Tom bending beneath his basket— the long- 
bearded philosopher— the turbaned Turk— the lady 
of flowing curls — the thousand other shapes that 
clay is heir to ! 

Purra wurr pobble bobble bobble ! 

Now I will go forth to battle in thy behalf, fair 
Nicotiana, sweet nymph ! Ho ! Chumgunder, thou 
shalt be mine armourer, and equip me for the 
contest. 

Bring me my tobacco-jar for a helm — give me my 
willow-tube for a lance, the lid of a cigar-box for a 



A AVREATH OF SMOKE. 



shield. Thrust me a pair of Cutties into my girdle 
for pistols ; hang a Churchwarden by my side for a 
sabre ; sling my tobacco-bag behind me for a pow- 
der-pouch ; stick a cigar and a shred of bird's-eye 
into my helmet by way of plume. 

And for thee, Chumgunder ; clap an empty cigar- 
box on thy head ; put my tobacconist's account at 
the end of the cherry stem, and bear in thy left 
hand the cigar-ash tray — so shalt you appear a 
squire of olden time, armed with bill and target. 

Fair Nicotiana ! thou shalt bid me farewell from 
the battlements, as lovely dames were wont to do in 
days of yore. Hast thou no favour to give thy 
knight, that he may wear it in his casque — a glove, 
a kerchief ? I have it— a scarf ! 

See now, Anskaragal, give me the yellow ribbon 
from around that bundle of cigars. So ! Now 
bind it round mine arm, there ! Farewell, sweet 
lady ! I will go forth and fight in thy behalf, and 
return victorious, or be borne back dead on my 
shield, though, in truth, I fear me it is over small to 
bear so large a body. 

Now, trumpets, sound the charge ! Fling out 
my pennon to the wind. (Hast thou not a bird's- 
eye handkerchief, Chumgunder, that thou canst 
flourish in lieu of a flag ?) 

Now, here stand I, the Champion of fair Nico- 



270 A WREATH OF SMOKE. 

tiana, ready to defend her against all comers, and in 
proof thereof, there lies my gage ! 

Tell me now, Prejudice, her foe, and Affectation, 
her traducer, what harm hath Nicotiana done ? I 
grant, there is poison concealed beneath a fair 
exterior, but go to ! "Who is not deadly ? Who 
hath not the power to slay ? Might not every 
woman be a Jael — every child a Jack the Giant- 
Killer? 

Oh, Great Plant ! oh, W r ond'rous Weed ! frag- 
rant as the spices of Araby ! when thou lappest thy 
votary in thy wreaths, when thou steepest his senses 
in Elysium, driving away all carking cares, who 
shall then accuse thee of being noxious ? 

W r hy, thou teachest us patience, as Angling is 
said to do. Fie upon that old Isaac Walton, with 
his living frog spitted on a darning-needle, his 
wriggling worm run upon thread like a glass bugle, 
his silvery fish gasping on the bank. Out upon his 
cruelty ! 

No, thou shalt teach me patience ; let me learn of 
thee, as slowly, day by day, I watch thy coming 
beauty, oh, virgin pipe ! Untiring will I tend thee 
day by day, as thou turnest to a rich brown, until, 
reward of all labour and patience, thou shinest like 
polished jet ! 

What better companion for a walk that the great 



A WEEATH OF SMOKE. 271 

herb ! Ha ! what an odorous whiff did we catch 
from between those green hedge-rows ! See how 
the blue curls of smoke float away as yon wanderer 
puffs at his little black pipe. Good day to you, 
friend — we are all friends — we smokers. Thou art 
my brother, navvy of the sable stump ; and thou, 
venerable Pomona — ancient apple-woman, with thy 
short clay — what shall we call thee— sister or bro- 
ther ? for truly thou hast a beard that vies with the 
fraternal mentum. 

Calming art thou, oh pipe — rightly entitled the 
pipe of peace ! Thy clouds wrap us from the outer 
world, and its harass and trouble. Soothed by thy 
tranquil powers, we can rival the Spartans of old, 
who, under Leonidas, marched to certain death to 
the sound of pipes ! 

Purra wurr pobble bobble bobble ! 

Who would not do the same to the soothing 
music of a hookah ? Alas, that our language has 
no sound that can adequately represent that lulling, 
bubbling voice. Perchance, in some more soft 
tongue— in the liquid language of some fair island 
far away in the Pacific, that low, cooing utterance 
may be the most endearing and beautiful sentence 
possible— the very perfection of love- whispers ! Sad 
that English can only represent it by — 



272 A WREATH OP SMOKE. 

Purra wurr pobble bobble bob — 

Ah me ! my pipe is out — my visions are gone ! 
Oh ! what inspiration — what dreams does not To- 
bacco give us, like those of opium, without opium's 
fearful consequences ! Ah, well ! my pipe is out ! 
Type of Life — vapour, smoke ! Farewell. We have 
come to the bottom of the bowl — ashes to ashes ! 

The last spark is out — the last curl of smoke has 
gone eddying up to the ceiling. 

Ting, ting, ting, ting, ting, ting, ting, ting, ting, 
ting, ting, ting ! Twelve ! It is midnight. 

Go back to thy resting-place, my Hookah, to thy 
mat of green Berlin wool and gold twist on the 
chiffonier ! Go back to thy resting-place then, oh 
my Hookah ! 

Anskaragal Chumgunder fadeth away; he was 
but a tobacco-built Eidolon — a smoke-framed image. 
He is gone ! 

Our pipe is out — our reverie over. It is mid- 
night, and we are no longer Sultan or Alchemist, 
Bursch or Hindoo. We are none of these ; we are 
only — sleepy ! 



THE BURDEN OE THE ISLES. 

Oh, thou great Nation, " shadowing with wings, 
That sendest thine ambassadors by sea !" 
Where sleeps thy spirit while the war-cry rings 
" God for the brave and free !' 

Seated so grandly on thy cliffs primeval, 
Thy feet foam-sprinkled by the hoary main, 
Queen of the Islands, wilt thou suffer Evil 
And Tyranny to reign ? 

No — thine old pulses through the land are beating ; 
The fire is kindling in a thousand eyes, 
And thousand lips are that one prayer repeating, 
" Oh, Lord, our God, arise !" 

Wilt thou be sluggish, mine own isle of Britain, 
In setting weak and trampled nations free — 
Thou — in whose laws the great decree is written — 
" My soil is Liberty !" 

Before mine eyes there comes a glorious vision — 
I see the Great Millenium of Peace, 
When in the world shall be no more division 
When War and Strife shall cease. 

N 3 



274 THE BURDEN OF THE ISLES. 

Victory no more shall change with fortune fickle — 
No blood be shed as in the times before, 
But Man shall shape the sword into the sickle, 
And War shall be no more ! 

But — ere That Time — mine own fair isle of Britain, 
Thy flag shall float the bulwark of the free, 
And by thy mighty hand the Tyrant smitten, 
Bound at thy feet shall be ! 



THE FOUR SEASONS. 

A MADRIGAL. 

Ring a ding a ding ! 

In the early Spring 

Wooed I the old woman, 

Wooed and wed her too, man ! 

She was rich and old, 

And, if truth be told, 

I did wed her gold ! 

Well — and would not you, man ? 
Ring a ding a ding, 
How the bells did ring 
When I wed in Spring ! 

In the summer days, 

With the sun a-blaze — 

Sickened the old woman ; 

As old women do, man ! 

Spite of draught and pill 

Grew she very ill. 

Sick and " sicker " still 

All the time she grew, man ! 
In the summer days, 
With the sky a-blaze, 
She got worse always ! 



276 THE FOUR SEASONS. 

Ding a dong a doug ! 

Autumn came ere long ! 

Died the poor old woman ! 

Well — what could I do, man ? 

Why, I put on black, 

And, as tears did lack, 

In a cup of sack 

Wetted mine eyes two, man ! 
Ding a dong a dong, 
With a funeral song 
Autumn came ere bug ! 

Ring a ding a ding ! 
Let us quaff and sing ! 
So died the old woman ! 
And for me and you, man, 
Left her wealth untold ; 
And this vintage old 
Of her gnineas gold 
Cost me not a few, man ! 
Well, she died in time ! 
For by Christmas chime, 
Ring a ding a ding, 
We can drink and sing — 
We good fellows two, man ! 
Ring a ding a ding, 
Let the joy-bells ring! 



IN THE WEST. 

The Sun is sinking to his golden rest 
Over the happy valley of Her birth — 
Over the purple hill-tops of the "West — 
The West — to me the dearest spot on Earth. 

And She, perchance, upon his fading rays 
Turns the love-treasure of Her earnest eyes, 
And the great Sun, enamoured, ling'ring, stays 
To steal another glance before he dies. 

Oh, happy Sun ! that seest Her each day 
In that green valley of the glorious West, 
While my sad heart sighs to itself alway— 
" Oh, when shall I be near Her — and at rest ?" 



A SONNET. 

Call not that Death, which closes weary eyes, 

And turns the heart into insensate dust, 

Chasing away all bitter memories 

Of care and sorrow — falsehood and mistrust ; 

But call that Death, which severs heart from heart — 

To die is peace — 'tis more than Death to part — 

Parting— ah, parting ! Death without its rest ! 

"Too deep for tears " — and far too deep for words, 

If e'er thy pangs could be in verse exprest 

Or whispered low to melancholy chords, 

Then would my Heart — its saddest utterance lending- 

A last " Farewell " breathe forth upon the air, 

Surpassing all sweet Poesy — and ending 

In one long sigh — break — break — in its despair ! 



THE POPULAR AIR. 

" Arbitrio popularis aurse." 

Hoe. Odes, Book III. Ode 2. 

" Certum est mustelsc posthac nunquam credere." 

Plautus. 

The fondness of the metropolis for some par- 
ticular tunes is marvellous. Out comes a song — 
and in a fortnight it is all over town. The Ri-tooral 
of Vilikins has hardly ceased to be heard in the 
streets, before the Rat-catcher's Daughter breaks 
out with a refrain of Doodle-dum. 

But the universal favourite for a long time has 
been " Pop goes the Weasel," — high and low — rich 
and poor — Alexandrina and Augustus in the draw- 
ing-room, and Bob and " Sally in the Alley," 
equally delight in it. 

Though many songs have risen and died out 



25U THE POPULAR AIR. 

since, that tune will not give way, but breaks out 
again at intervals, like that extraordinary dramatis 
persona in the tragedy of Punch, who is pursued 
by that hero and his cudgel— now disappearing in 
the house (which flaps to and fro at the wing) for a 
time, and anon popping his head out of a window, 
uttering the cabalistic word " Shallabala/' and 
before Punch can get a fair blow at him, disappear- 
ing again, only to pop out afresh on the other side, 
and repeat his invariable remark — now lost for a 
time, but sure to appear again ere long, until 
finally he knocks Punch on the head, and with 
a triumphant " Shallabala," disappears from the 
scene. 

Just in this way did " Pop goes the Weasel" 
persecute an old bachelor friend of mine — figura- 
tively giving him a knock-down blow, which in- 
duced him, in the hopes of finding benefit from 
"change of air" (in two senses), to write me the 
following letter. 

" My dear Fellow, 

" Do, for mercy's sake, ask me down to stay with 

you in the country. I can't stand it any longer — 

this confounded 'Pop goes the "Weasel/ I am a 

bachelor, as you know, about thirty, in good health, 



THE POPULAR AIR. 281 

and not in bad circumstances ; but I'm sinking, by 
Jove, Sir, I'm sinking under that Weasel. All the 
boys in the street whistle it — (there — there's one at 
it now.) All the girls yell it. There isn't an organ 
in London that can't grind it out ad infinitum, and 
those wretched Italians grin at one round their 
jingling, twangling boxes as if they were giving one 
a treat — a surprise, by Jove ! Would you believe 
it, I gave one of the ragamuffins a half-crown yes- 
terday for grinding ' Jeannette and Jeannot ? } 
you've no idea what a relief it was — quite a 
novelty. 

" Only the other day, I astounded a butcher-boy 
by blessing him — yes, Sir, and giving him sixpence 
for whistling f The gay Cavalier/ 

" You must know that that Weasel, Sir, has de- 
stroyed my plans of future happiness. I was on 
the point of laying myself and fortune at the feet of 
Miss Berlyn Wollaston (you must remember them 
living in B — Street) when in popped that horrid 
Weasel between me and my hopes." 

" On Monday — my birth-day — she sent me a pair 
of slippers, her own work. Picture to yourself my 
horror on opening the parcel. On a light green 
ground there were no fewer than six of those atro- 
cious Weasels — all 'popping' out of of little black 



282 THE POPULAR AIR. 

lozenges, intended I suppose to represent the holes 
of the vermin. You may guess I left the 
f Weasels ' to ' pop ' the question. / never shall. 
How could I marry a woman afflicted with the 
Weasel mania ? 

"By George, it's too bad ! there's that boy again; 
(or another very likely — they're all in a league to 
drive me mad)— there he goes — wouldn't I ' lumty- 
dumty-dumty-dum-pop-goes-the-Weasel' you if 
I were behind you, you young howling nui- 
sance ! 

"There's another — the next door lodger strum- 
ming it on her piano. 

" Only this morning, my nephew, young Hare, 
came to see me. You recollect the lad, rather a 
favourite of mine. Well— he's going to Oxford, so 
I gave him a lot of good advice — not to get into 
scrapes with the Dons — or run into debt — but above 
all not to let any one persuade him to bet or 
gamble, and, by Jove, Sir, the young puppy had the 
impudence to wink at me, and tell me ' to catch a 
weasel'— yes, Sir, a weasel — ' asleep ' and if I 
succeeded in doing so, he advised me to ' nip his 
tail ' or ' shave his eyebrows,' or some nonsense of 
the sort. 

" I've cut the heartless young rascal off with a 



THE POPULAE, Altt. 283 

' Goldsmith's Animated Nature' (page turned down 
at the article ' Weasel/) 

" It's getting too much for me. Ask me down or 
I shall be dead in a week— it's the prevailing epi- 
demic. It's the ' Weasels ' everybody's got now, 
— not the measles ; by the bye, I verily believe if 
there were any more rhymes to it besides ' measles — 
teazles and easels' there would be some one fool 
enough to versify it, — though to be sure a man who 
would write on such a subject would descend to 
' please all ' and ' teaze all ' and such rhymes. 

" For goodness sake, ask me down by return, or 
you will never see alive 

" Your friend, 

" John Wyld Rabbet." 



THE MOSS-TROOPER'S DIRGE. 

Hame came the gucle steed, 
Hame came the grey, 
Hame came the bonny steed, 
That bore my love away. 

Hame came the gude steed 
Besoil'd wi' mony a stain ; 
Hame came the bonny steed — 
My love came nae again. 

Hame came the head-gear, 
The saddle it came hame, 
Hame came the stirrups 
And bridle a' the same. 

No Jeddart axe it hangit 

Beside the saddle-bow, 

It stay'd behind to guard its lord, — 

And he will come no mo' ! 

Hame came the gude steed, 

At the ha' gate she stude, 

But she left my love on Crammock Lee 

All weltering in his bluid ! 



THE PALMER'S TREE. 

" A goodly Elm, of noble birth, 
That, thrice the human span, 
While on their variegated course 
The constant seasons ran, 
Through gale and hail and fiery bolt 
Had stood erect as Man." 

HOOD — "THE ELM TREE." 

Alas ! that the Dryads are silent — else could the 
patriarch elm that stands in the middle of the village 
tell curious tales of the olden time. Why, even 
now, what hosts of traditions cling around its grey, 
gnai'led, weather-beaten bole. Its very name brings 
before me a vision of 

"Files arrayed 

With helm and blade, 

And plumes in the gay wind dancing." 



286 the palmer's tree. 

It was planted in the days of the Crusaders — the 
Palmer's Tree. Why, it must have been set in the 
ground by some " pilgrim from beyond the seas." 
Picture him with his long garments and his wide- 
brimmed hat looped up with a monster cockle-shell 
—his staff and little wallet — his feet shod with 
sandals that have known the dust of Palestine, have 
been wetted with the waters of Jordan, that have 
trod in the footsteps of Our Lord. 

Or mayhap it was planted by one of the Brents 
— the old Lords of the soil— whose grim monu- 
ments—grim from their very shapelessness — lie in 
the church. 

He, perhaps, planted it when, with the red cross 
on his shoulder, he buckled on his arms and set out 
for the Holy Wars. 

Years went by — and beneath that tree — when its 
leaves were russet-tinged in the last bright days of 
autumn — he may have stood on his return a grey- 
headed, broken-spirited pilgrim, worn out with 
sickness, dangers, and imprisonment. 

It may be he laid him down under that tree and 
died— who knows ? 

Strange times has it seen since then, when the 
village green spread around it, and the Maypole, that 
stood near it, was its rival in height (it would take 



the palmer's tree. 287 

a tall Maypole to rival it now), when the dance, and 
sport, and song went on merrily, and lovers whis- 
pered under its boughs. 

And afterwards, when dance and song were held 
a crime, when the Puritans hewed down its neigh- 
bour, the Maypole, who knows whether some fugitive 
Cavalier may not have hidden himself among its 
branches ? 

Of these times we have no tradition which says that 
Cromwell stabled his hoi'ses in the church — that is 
too common for our village — there's hardly a church 
in England where they do not tell you that. No, 
we have a set of Communion plate to show, that was 
given to the church by Mary Ludlow, the niece and 
god-child of the regicide. Part of the manor once 
belonged to Pym — ay, and, to be sure, in former 
days it all belonged to Sir Thomas Gresham. So 
you see the village is highly connected. One of the 
Brents was a commissioner under Cromwell — 
Wolsey's Cromwell — and one of them fought at 
Bannockburn. There was a pair of stone figures — 
of himself and his wife — in the church once, until a 
sacrilegious Quaker had them both tumbled into a 
hole because they had their hands in the Romish 
attitude of prayer. 

The Lady Claricia has been rescued since then, 



288 the palmer's tree. 

and reposes calmly on the shady side of the porch 
now. She was discovered by the old sexton as he 
was digging a grave, and not a little surprised was 
he at finding " the Mummy of Egypt" as he called 
it. 

Let us hope that the old knight will turn up some 
day — surely his non-resistance should have hindered 
the Quaker from entombing him. I have often 
heard of burning— but this is the first case I have 
met with of burying a man in effigy. 

In the days of King Hal the old tree must have 
seen strange things when the monks were expelled 
from the Penitentiary, which stood where the Manor 
House does now. 

This Penitentiary, I am sorry to say, for the credit 
of the village, was a kind of Botany Bay to Glaston- 
bury Abbey, whence they seut all the rebellious and 
impenitent brethren to undergo the punishments 
fitted for their crimes. The church-yard is full of 
gi'aves, made North and South instead of East and 
West, doubtless the way in which they buried those 
who died in their sins. I wonder whether they lie 
any the less comfortably on that account. 

In the church there is a curious little niche like a 
sentry-box, —in those days it was connected with the 
Penitentiary by a long corridor, and by this, they 



the palmer's thee. 2S9 

brought those who were condemned to the most 
severe punishments, and placed them behind the iron 
bars to hear mass. Who knows in what dark cells 
those miserable men were kept ; — perhaps the only 
glimpse of the blue sky they ever got was through 
the windows of the church as they gazed up wistfully 
from behind the grating ! 

But if the Penitentiary was a place of torment to 
them, the presiding Priest found it a very Paradise. 
The garden stretched blooming around, and in the 
adjoining grounds — now called Wynyards — were the 
blushing vineyards loaded with purple grapes. 

The last presiding priest is the gentleman, who 
after death was promoted to the enviable honour of 
Principal Parish Ghost, as you shall hear. 

Of course, everybody knows about " Jack Horner, 
who sat in a corner and pulled out a plum ;" those 
verses, though now only looked upon as nursery 
rhymes, had another meaning once. 

In the time of bluff King Hal, as I said before, 
Abbot Whiting was the Superior of Glastonbury, and 
at his steward's instigation, the King seized him, and 
finding him guilty of imaginary crimes, sentenced 
him to death. 

When the news was told at the Penitentiary, the 
presiding priest determined to wait until the last 



290 the palmer's tree. 

chance of a reprieve ; — he could not believe that the 
good Abbot would be sacrificed to the falsehood of 
the steward. Can you not fancy him, the night 
before the execution, watching eagerly from the 
church tower for the messenger that he hoped to see 
riding along the top of the hill to bring good tidings. 
In vain— the sun sunk lower and lower— until 
slowly behind the purple hills to westward, his last 
rays disappeared ; and the evening star shone out 
over the death-bed of the sun, like the pardon of 
Heaven above a dying penitent. Anon one by one 
the stars came out, and presently the moon rose, and 
by its mellow light the priest buried his silver 
cross and went forth on the wide world hoping and 
praying for better times when he might return and 
reclaim his concealed treasure. The better clays 
never came, and the priest died in exile, but on the 
anniversary of the night when he buried it, if report 
says true, his spirit is to be seen in the churchyard, 
watching over the buried cross. "Alas, poor 
ghost!" we too have sympathy with you — we have 
buried our treasures " many a time and oft" and 
are waiting with you for the better days ! The old 
tree and he must know each other well now, and look 
at one another and wonder for how many years 
longer they shall spend that silent vigil together. 



the palmer's tree. 291 

The Abbot was bung, drawn, and quartered at 
Glastonbury, according to the amiable usage of the 
time, and the steward retired to his great country 
house, and lived merrily on the Abbey treasures — 
which, strange to tell, he had forgotten to give up to 
the king with the information that led to the Abbot's 
death. 

The unjust steward is the Horner of nursery 
rhyme ! 

That is one of our ghost stories, but we have 
others beside, and on the whole, are rather rich in 
legendary lore. 

There's a little lane overhung by trees that meet 
overhead, and form a dim arcade, in which is a 
pump that not a soul in the village dare pass at 
night, for a mad fiddler who, once upon a time, 
dwelt here, made it his favourite seat, and there, 
with his violin, he would get up concerts with the 
nightingales. After his death, his ghost took to fre- 
quenting the same spot, and is to be seen there at 
dark performing upon a silent fiddle ; a fact only to 
be accounted for by the weakness of his intellect, 
and the strength of habit, for the place is by no 
means a pleasant spot to resort to. 

Another of our ghosts has of late deserted 
us. 

o 2 



292 the palmer's tree. 

Not many years ago, an old woman in a red 
cloak was to be seen trudging along the church 
path— invariably disappearing if any one was 
courageous enough to follow her. At the same 
place too might be heard the spectre steed. The 
church path was bounded on each side by a hedge, 
and was terminated by a stile, crossing over which 
you found yourself in the open fields. 

Those who went along there late of an evening 
heard sometimes the sounds of a horse galloping 
fiercely along on the other side of the hedge, but 
when they crossed the stile, all was suddenly silent, 
and not a living object was to be seen. I suppose 
it was the ghost of a highwayman, for there were 
once a great number of those gentlemen along the 
high road on the top of the hill. There is in the 
parish, a cave, where one of those notabilities 
resided. It consists of a hall, a stable, and a forge, 
where the robber used to shoe his horse backwards, 
in order to baffle pursuit. 

But to return to the old woman. When the 
village was undergoing some alterations and im- 
provements, the church path was changed, and led 
up to the church in a different and more picturesque 
direction, and never since that time has anything 
been seen or heard of the aged dame. I suppose she 



the palmer's tree. 293 

was unable to find her accustomed promenade, and 
so gave up her perambulations in disgust at the 
spirit of innovation which had swept her favourite 
haunt from the face of the earth. Whether the 
ghost part of the story is true or not, I cannot say : 
one thing is certain, however, namely, that a skele- 
ton was found in a ditch by the side of the old path, 
but how it came there, or whose it was, nobody 
could tell. 

But we are forgetting the old tree of justice, for 
such it was when old Brent used to have his great 
arm-chair placed under it, and there he would sit, 
" in state, in doublet and trunk hose" and deal out 
jurisprudence, and a fine old fellow he was, no 
doubt, this same old Justice Brent. 

But the tree was the tree of hospitality too, and 
beneath it the weary traveller, or the pilgrim to 
Glastonbury, was regaled on white bread and cheese, 
with a foaming black-jack creaming over with rare 
home-brewed ale. 

But the old tree must have its unpleasant 
recollections too. Some of its boughs turn up 
short at right-angles like an elbow, showing how, in 
the troubled times of Monmouth, men were hung 
from its branches and swayed there rotting away 
piecemeal. When the Manor House was under- 
going repairs, a skeleton was dug up under the 



294 the palmer's tree. 

pavement of the Great Hall. Some unhappy fol- 
lower of Monmouth, doubtless, had crawled thither 
and died in concealment. Hurried and secret were 
the funeral rites when that hapless man was buried, 
late at night, perchance, when the savage soldiers of 
Kirke were sunk into drunken slumbers. At the 
same time that the bones were discovered, they 
found a golden spur that had formerly jingled at 
the heel of some noble knight, long since turned to 
dust. 

But brighter times came for the old tree, and 
loud was the shouting when the most learned elder 
of the village stood up on the stone seat, that is 
built around its stem, and read aloud the glorious 
news of Waterloo and the flight of " Boneyparty." 
Then, too, there was the dinner and dance held 
beneath it at the Peace Jubilee. Proud days must 
those have been for the old elm ; the sap must have 
tingled in its branches with a vigour that reminded 
him of the jolly old times when the mummers 
footed it gaily round the flower-wreathed May- 
pole. 

But now the village green is gone— nay, the 
carpenter's shop, the village lounge, that more 
lately stood beneath it, is no more, and the old 
tree writhes out his snaky, branch-like roots 
through stones and gravel, instead of soft velvet 



the palmer's tree. 295 

turf. But old and young still resort to the stone 
seat at its foot : and on Christmas-Eve, the carollers, 
when they go round, always stay and rest under 
the elm, where there is sure to be found a steaming 
jug of "hot spiced," and before they go on, they 
sing a carol there : I always fancy that they sing 
best there, but ill-natured people attribute that to 
the jug of "hot spiced" aforesaid. 

The village people have lots of strange things to 
tell of the old tree. Some of them gravely assert 
that the Israelites planted it after they crossed the 
Red Sea— to be sure, it may be so, but if they did, 
they certainly went slightly out of their way to 
do it. 

Another of the traditions is rather derogatory to 
the grandeur of the elm, and improbable moreover, 
because it seems to be of later date than the tree. 
It is, that Palmer was a suicide who was buried at 
four cross-roads with a stake run through him, that 
the stake grew and flourished, nurtured by the rich 
food at its root. There are not four cross-roads 
there now, whatever there may have been then ; 
and it is hardly likely that the stake would be so 
planted as to be able to grow, so I reject the legend 
altogether. 

To one of the other village traditions, I can give 
a little more credence. They say that the branches 



296 the palmer's tree. 

never fall except ou a Saint's day : a belief handed 
down, no doubt, since the days of the Romanists, 
when it was quite possible, for their calendar has a 
saint for pretty nearly every day out of the three 
hundred and sixty-five. Be that as it may, I did 
certainly see a limb fall — and that in a very mys- 
terious manner — on the Eve of St. John, some few 
years ago. There was hardly a breath stirring to 
turn the leaf of an aspen, when I heard a low moan, 
and slowly a great branch parted from the stem, 
stripping down a great piece of the bark with a 
strange tearing sound, and then it fell with a crash 
to the footpath beneath. There was something 
solemn in that sudden fall — like death in the midst 
of life — on that still summer twilight. I don't 
know whether it was on a Saint's day that a branch 
came down with a sacrilegious robber who was 
making fire-wood of the old elm. It seemed like a 
just retribution on the part of the patriarchal tree — 
as if, w r hen it saw the impious wretch climbing up 
to desecrate its grandeur, it had shaken off indig- 
nantly the branch to which he was clinging, and 
hurled him to the earth, breaking his leg with the 
fall. 

Rare old patriarch ! there he stands, strong and 
mighty still, seeing trees shorter-lived grow up and 
die around him. 



the palmer's tree. :297 

The limes in the church-yard, where the murmur 
of the bees souuds as if the dead were whispering 
together, have grown up and are falling to decay. 

He saw the fall of the stately yews that stood of 
yore in the church-yard, until some senseless farmer 
hewed them down, because, forsooth, they overhung 
his field, and his cattle browsed on them, and were 
poisoned as they deserved to be for their impiety. 

And not genei'ations of trees only has he seen, 
but ages of men have sprung up and died off since 
first he was planted. The boy and girl who played 
beneath his shade — who first whispered their love 
under his boughs — he has seen their wedding go 
by; and years after, the funeral train has passed 
slowly beneath bim, and one by one they have 
dropped into the grave, leaving their children to 
play, and dance, and woo in their turn beneath the 
old elm. 

Long may wind and storm spare him to spread 
his sturdy branches round, and whisper to the 
summer air the legends of old times. Years hence 
he shall flourish, when the present generation, with 
its children and. children's children, has gone to 
rest, and new faces, and new customs, and new 
homes, and lives, and happinesses have sprung up 
around the grey old elm. 

o 3 



1855. 

The lion rises from his lair 
Beside the ocean tide — 
The eagle from his eyrie sweeps 
Upon his pinions wide, — 
The banners of two lordly lands are floating side by side. 

Sternly against the sullen foe 
The gallant ranks advance, 
While high above the glittering line 
The bright twin standards glance, 
And flows beneath the best — best blood of England and of 
France. 

The deadly din of cruel war 
Goes upward day and night, — 
The wail of loved ones for the loved 
That ne'er shall bless their sight, 
But louder still the mighty cry of " God defend the right !" 

The lion shall not lay him down 
Until his foemen die, — 
The eagle to his lofty crag 
In triumph back shall fly ! 
The banners of those lordly lands shall float in victory ! 



■■' WHA' WILL YE GIE TO PRINCE CHARLIE ?' 

The Graeme he rode into Glenalvon, 
Aud blew on the horn at the gate, 
And up rose the Laird and the Ladie 
From the old castle ha' where they sate. 

Syne up rose the Laird's only daughter, 
And down fra' her bower she came, 
And up rose old Elsie the nourice 
And louted down law to the Graeme. 

" 0, wha' will ye gie to Prince Charlie, 
To help him to come by his ain ?" 
Saies the Laird, " I'se gie vassals five hundred 
To get him his kingdom again !" 

" 0, wha 5 will ye gie to Prince Charlie, 
To help him again to his right ?" 
Saies the Ladie, " I'se fill yer blue bonnet 
Wi' the red gowd and siller sae white !" 

" O, wha' will ye gie to Prince Charlie, 
To help him 'gainst traitorous churls ?" 
Saies the maiden, " I'se work him a banner 
Embroidered wi' silk and wi' pearls ?" 



300 "WHA"' WILL YE GIE TO PRINCE CHARLIE? 

Then spake him auld Elsie the nourice, 
" My gudeman died for him lang since, 
But gladly I'se gie ye my ae son 
To fight and to fa' for his Prince !" 



WHITHEll ? 

" Whither, brooklet say ! 
Thou hast with thy soft murmur 
Murmured my senses away." 

LONGi'ELLOW. 

I stood on the banks of a little brook — a little 
babbling, brawling brook— whose banks were moss, 
studded with violets and tender lilies. 

And my heart said to the streamlet, " Whither ? 
whither ?" 

Then the streamlet prattled to the pebbles 
in its bed, and murmured, " Onward — onward 
— ever onward to the sea — the great, wide, 
glorious sea, into whose bosom sinks the golden 
sun — to the happy sea, whose waves are emerald 
and gold ;" and the brook hurried on. 

As I walked up the stream, behold, there came 
one with long golden curls, and he was young. 
His eyes were eager — no look to right or left did 
they cast — ever onward — onward flew his earnest 



302 WHITHER ? 

glances as though they would outstrip him, and 
reach the wished-for goal before him. 

And my heart said, " Whither ? whither ?" 
And the youth answered hurriedly, " Onward— 
onward— ever onward to life — to fame— to happi- 
ness \" And he passed on his way; but behind 
him came a fair, fair girl. Her eyes were looking 
onward towards the youth, and she trode upon the 
violets and lilies, but she plucked not one. 
And my heart said, " Whither ? whither ?" 
And with her sweet, low voice, she answered, 
" Onward — onward — ever onward to love and hap- 
piness— whither he goeth — thither I follow, to be 
his bride, and dwell in joy for ever/' And her 
light step was no more on the flowers, but she 
followed him she loved. 

Anon came an old grey-headed man. His step 
was slow and his eyes dull, yet he walked onward 
without cease, and in his arms he bore a chest of 
riches : and he cursed the violets that they stayed 
his path, yet he bore the coffer uncomplaining. 
And my heart said, " Whither ? whither V 
And he replied, "Onward— onward— ever on- 
ward to wealth, and ease, and quiet — to the enjoy- 
ment of years of calm, rich old age." Yet was he 
old and grey already, but still he hurried onward — 
ever onward. 



WHITHER ? 303 

And lo ! I beheld the sage — and my heart said, 
" Whither ? whither P" 

He turned not his eyes from the far horizon, and 
spoke, " Onward — onward — ever onward to know- 
ledge— god-like knowledge." Then he closed his 
thin lips, and passed on. 

Then I said within myself, " Lo, mine Heart, 
thither turn all eyes— thither fly all thoughts — 
thither bend all steps. Let us turn — let us too go 
onward — onward— ever onward!" So spake I, 
and turning back, I went down by the side of the 
stream, and the stream grew wider, and deeper, and 
more silent — and, behold ! by the side of the bank, 
beneath a willow, was moored a little boat, and it 
was shaped like a shell, " with a swan-wing for 
a sail ;" and the name of that boat was " Thought." 
Then I stepped in and loosed it, and it bore me 
down the current. At length, I came to the last 
bend of that broad river, and I heard the voice of 
the sea, and an eddy bore my boat into a little 
creek amid wild weeds, and rustling rushes, and 
tall flags. The boat stood still. Then I leaped to 
land, and the reeds murmured, "Onward — onward 
— ever onward," — and at my feet was a grave. There 
was nought save a green mound, and by the side 
of it lay that iron coffer that I well knew. Its lid 



304 WHITHEK ? 

had burst open, and the gold and gems lay scattered 
among the long grass, and the buttercups shamed 
the gold ! 

Then the cypress leant over me and said, " See, 
he fell as he was pressing onward — ever onward; 
he looked for a longer journey, but it was not 
granted; and his riches, whom do they prosper?" 

Then I wept for him, and said, " Farewell, my 
brother." 

But the reeds murmured " Onward," and I 
obeyed; and behold! from the brow of the hill I 
saw the sea ; but it was dark and restless, and its 
waves were not as emerald and gold, but like black 
palls, with white foam borderings. 

And the river was lost in the ocean. 

On the wide — wide, sandy, desolate shore I saw 
a wretched hut, and by the mouth of the river, but 
apart from one another, I saw two figures. 

Then I entered the hut; and no fair — fair girl 
was thei'e, but a pale woman, and a child lay in her 
arms. Then I took the babe and kissed it, but it 
was cold, and a violet and a lily were in its hand. I 
gave the child back to the mother, and my heart 
said to her, " Whither ?" 

She pointed upward to the sky, and said, 
"Thither! My husband liveth and toileth, but 
my child is gone thither." 



WHITHER? 305 

And I saw that those other twain figures were 
the youth and the sage. And the sage beat upon 
his breast, and he stood far out, with the water 
of the ocean at his knee. Then I asked him, 
" Whither V and he groaned and said, " Thus far, 
and no farther ! but knowledge is not of Here, but 
of There I" and he pointed to the Heavens. He 
spake again, and said, " Lo, I have come thus far, 
and know nothing, and am but as a child : would 
that I might go thither and know all.-" 

Then I turned to the youth, that was a youth no 
longer, but a man, with the number of his years 
marked on his brow;— his hair was dark— it grew 
long, and lank, and unkempt, and it was touched 
with silver — and I said to him, " Whither ?" and he 
moaned back an answer, like the sad sea-waves at 
night, " Thither ! Fame is nought, and happiness 
is not to be won, Life is miserable — but thither, 
thither, up in the silent Heaven, thither go I \" and 
he toiled on. 

Then I spake to the silent river, "Whither? 
whither ?" And the waves tossed up their spray 
toward Heaven, and said, " Thither, to the bright 
blue sky !" 

Then the sun broke forth, and I could see the 
water-mist rising, and the drops of the river 



306 WHITHER ? 

mounted up his golden beams like the angels on 
the golden ladder of the old patriarch's dream. 
And anon there floated a bright purple cloud in the 
calm serenity of Heaven. 

Then saw I that the sun gleamed on the sails of 
a vessel that came steadily across that dark sea to 
that lone, desolate shore; and the name of that 
vessel was " Death." And as the winds breathed 
in the sails and whispered amid the cordage — they 
murmured, " Onward — onward — ever onward 
beyond this dark sea— onward to peace, and rest in 
Heaven." Then those watchers on the shore cried, 
" Welcome." So the sage cast his books into the 
sea, and the weary man laid by his labour, and the 
mother came forth of the hut, and folded her child 
to her heart — and amid them stood the shadow of 
the old man, but his iron-bound chest was not with 
him. 

And they cried " Welcome." And the winds 
murmured from that stately ship, " Onward — 
onward — ever onward \" 

And my dream faded. 



THE NORTH STAR. 

Listen, Northmen, while I sing to the harp's resounding 

string 
Of an ancient Ocean-King, and his name was Wulf the Bold ; 
And of all the Vikings brave, who the surly northern wave 
In their gallant vessels clave in the glorious days of old, 
Few there were, I ween, who dare e'er themselves with 

Wulf compare, 
Or attempt his fame to share, for like tempest was his wrath ; 
When his black brows clouded grew, then his words were 

short and few, 
But his blows were swift and true. Woe to him, who crost 

his path ! 
For he did like Hymir frown, who from Asgard looking down 
On the mountains scathed and brown cleft the iron-sinewed 

rocks, 
And his eyes were grey and stern, and like autumn-tinted 

fern, 
Or like Thor's (that seem to burn) were his closely clustered 

locks, 



308 THE KOETH STAR. 

And his long, red beard did rest on the iron-plated vest 
That defended his broad breast 'gainst the foemen in the 

fight. 
On his shoulders he did wear, trophy of a savage bear 
He had slain within its lair, mantle thick of snowy white, 
And its long, sharp teeth were set in his helm, as coronet, 
Where the rim and head-piece met — long, and white, and 

sharp were they, 
Broad, and thick, and bright, and round, brazen plates with 

iron bound 
Was his buckler. Many a wound had it saved him in the 

fray. 
Hanging in his baldric wide, clashed his falchion true and 

tried 
'Gainst his thigh. 'Twould oft abide many days within its 

sheath, 
But if once its steely ray glittered forth into the day, 
Never was it laid away till it saw a foeman's death. 
Thus equipped the warrior stood, as a Sea-King ever should, 
Gazing at the angry flood from his vessel's lofty prow. 
Deep was he in thought, I ween, and a watcher might have 

seen 
Thoughts, like stormy clouds at e'en, flit across his darkened 

brow ; 
There were foes upon the sea : Oh, and very wroth was he, 
Faithful to the North Countrie, went he boldly forth to 

fight; 
But the Nomas mystic three, sitters by the wondrous 

tree 
Igdrasil, did him decree Hela's guest to be that night. 



THE NORTH STAR. 309 

At the stern were Sagas two, singing to the listening crew 
Of the deeds that Thor did do in the land of Jotunheim, 
How the ocean cup he quaffed, of the Midgard snake by craft 
Shaped like cat, how Skrymir laughed and of the old Woman 
Time. 

Sudden o'er the harp and song rang the war-note loud and 

long, 
Gathered then the warrior throng round their leader eagerly. 
On the far horizon's rim, on the ocean's very brim, 
Vessels, indistinct and dim, sailing up the wind they spy. 
Never gave he word or sign till he counted up the line 
Of his foemen. Vessels nine counted he beneath his breath. 
Then he turned him to his crew, " Death or slavery — of two 
Choose ye, Northmen staunch and true." And the North- 
men shouted, " Death !" 
Then he drew lus weapon forth, bright as meteor of the 

North, 
Well a warrior's pains 'twere worth to behold its deadly ray. 
As he grasped its hilt aright, sudden grew his knuckles 

white 
As the Thunderer's grasping tight magic Mjolner for the 

fray. 
Then those Northmen, staunch and true, forth their trusty 

weapons drew, 
In the sea the sheaths they threw, that they ne'er should 

need again. 
(Egir from his depths arose to behold the vessels close, 
Swiftly — swiftly came the foes : 0, the rowers rowed 

amain. 



310 THE NORTH STAR. 

On the foremost bark he rushed — swift the gurgling waters 

gushed 
Through her timbers torn and crushed — down she settled in 

the deep, 
Not a shout from either side— not a sound save of the tide 
Dashing from the oar-blades wide as the vessels onward 

sweep. 

Now the other eight begin, rowing swift, to hem him in. 

Then arose the warlike din of the closing of the ships. 

Hand to hand, and knee to knee, thrice they made the foe- 
men flee. 

One more vessel 'neath the sea, with her broadside riven, 
dips. 

With the rudder in his hand, at the helm Wulf takes his 
stand, 

Well the ship obeys command, and the oarsmen stoutly row. 

Vainly do the foemen strive in the bark their prows to drive, 

Deftly as a thing ahve she avoids the fatal blow. 

But, alas ! of little good is their stoutest hardihood, 

Odds too great to be withstood are the hostile vessels 
still. 

Soon the warlike, echoing shout o'er the silent deep breaks 
out, 

Cries of warriors staunch and stout, and the horns with 
voices shrill. 

Then spake Wulf, "My Iron-hearts, boldly have ye done 

your parts, 
Ply your javelins and darts — keep the enemy away. 



THE NORTH STAE. 311 

Mind ye now how with one voice ye of Death did make the 
choice, 

Not to let the foe rejoice, though they hold us thus at bay ? 

I descend now to prepare noble death that all may share, 

They shall know what Northmen dare I" Then he hied Urn 
down below. 

Not a shout the Northmen [raise — not a cry of blame or 
praise, 

Grim their blood-stained swords they raise, — well their mean- 
ing doth he know. 

Often and again the foes round that fated vessel close, 
Breast to breast exchanging blows, still their crews are 

driven back. 
All the deck is covered o'er with dead bodies and with 

gore- 
Streaming blood that evermore trickles down her timbers 

black. ° 

Sudden 'mid that desperate band, with a blazing, flickering 

brand 
Waved above him in his hand, strode forth "Wulf from out 

the hold. 
" I have lighted here a pyre — on whose flaming wings of fire 
We shall higher rise and higher to Valhalla of the Bold !" 
Then that valiant, dauntless crew— firm, and staunch, but 

very few — 
Round about their leader drew, raising a victorious shout ; 
And the foeman rowed apace, and withdrew some little space 
As from an accursed place — and the smoke came i 

out. 



312 THE NORTH STAB,. 

From beneath the smoke upcurled — up the masts and cordage 

whirled, 
Like a spectre sail unfurled by the fingers of the wind. 
And the ship began to glide, borne by a mysterious tide, 
O'er the ocean dark and wide, till it left the foe behind. 
On the blazing hulk did swim, through the evening vapours 

dim 
To the far horizon's rim — far as straining eye could range — 
Then the foemen from the deck saw the distant burning 

wreck 
(Lessened to a little speck) undergo a wondrous change — 
While those sturdy men of war watched it glimmering afar, 
They beheld a glorious star rise where erst the wreck had 

been. 
Under Thor's divine control, slow it glided to the Pole, 
Centre of the orbs that roll in night's canopy serene. 
Then returned those vessels seven, telling how that star in 

Heaven 
"Was to Wulf the Valiant given, for his noble deeds in war. 
And it ever beams on high — centre of the northern sky, 
And the name men call it by, is the Changeless Northern 

Star ! 



THE NORTH STAR. 3L"3 



NOTES. 



Hymir, or Ymir, was a frost giant, who is said by bis 
frowns to have split the rocks ; Asgard is the dwelling of the 
Gods (answering to Olympus) ; Jotunbeim, that of the giants. 
Yggdrasill, or Igdrasil, is the asb, whose roots are in the 
regions of Hela, or Death, and under whose shade the Gods 
met in council. Beneath it sat the three Nomas, or Fates 
— Urd, Verdandi, and Skuld. 

Thor was the Thunderer, possessed of a magic mallet, with 
which he slew his foes ; he is often described in the Sagas as 
clenching it until his knuckles whiten. The story of his 
voyage into Jotunbeim is well known. He was challenged to 
perform three feats by Joki, the giant king. The first was 
to empty a horn, the liquor in which he was surprised to find 
little diminished after three deep draughts. The next feat 
was to lift a cat from the floor, in which he also failed, only 
Ufting one of its feet from the ground. The last was to 
wrestle with an old woman : in this struggle Thor was 
worsted, the old crone forcing him down on one knee. On 
his departure, Joki explained to him all these illusions, for 
such tbey were. The horn was the sea, which his deep 
draughts bad caused to ebb considerably. The cat was the 
Midgard serpent, who is coiled round the middle of the earth, 
under the sea, in the regions of (Egir, the Neptune of the 
Scandinavians. The old woman, with whom he wrestled, was 
no less a personage than Eld, or Time himself. 



LIGHT AND SHADE. 

Out of the East there arose the form of a beauti- 
ful woman ; over the purple hills she came, floating 
upward — floating upward, like a bright cloud at 
sunset. Her face was as the face of an angel, and 
one silver star shone on her forehead. Around her 
brow was twined a wreath of silver lily flowers, and 
her hair went streaming adown over her long robes, 
like the rippling of a golden river ; her robes were 
of the brightest purple, studded with starry tears. 
And the wafting of her rustling garments was like 
a strain of " exquisite music" 

Her white arms were folded on her bosom, and 
her long bright curls twined adown and around 
them — golden bracelets of Nature's own making: 
and her eyes were like Heaven— blue, — the clear, 
deep blue of Heaven, that is not a colour, but the 



LIGHT AXD SHADE. 315 

immensity of air, so the azure Heavens of her eyes 
took their hue from the depths of soul, that looked 
forth from them. 

So passed she over the earth towards the West 
— the dolphin-tinted West, where the sun stood still 
to gaze at her amid his purple throne-canopy of 
clouds, with their glorious, golden fringing. 

And I said, " Surely, it is the Spirit of the earth — 
the bride of the great sun." 

Beneath her, as she passed, sprang flowers of 
every kind — forget-me-nots, blue as her own 
deep eyes, velvet heart's- ease, and sweet valley- 
lilies, odorous roses, and all sweetest flowers 
bloomed forth at the spring-tide of her presence. 

But the sun cast her shadow behind her. 

A dark — dark shade as of a passing cloud : it 
darkened the flowers and they withered, it passed 
o'er the blossoms and they died. 

Yet she saw it not, for she was gazing at the 
West, where the sun stood still and turned to her 
his golden looks of love. 

Therefore passed she on, still smiling — smiling 
ever — smiling fresh blossoms from the earth. And 
lo ! a voice — " Pass on — float forward — brighten 
earth with thy sweet presence, but, as night 
followeth day — as darkness followeth sunshine, so 
p 2 



316 LIGHT AND SHADE. 

must shadow follow light. So it is ordained. It 
cannot be otherwise — the brighter the light, the 
deeper the shade." 

Then the voice died away, like a mighty wind at 
midnight. 

The Shadow was Death, but the bright Form was 
Life. 

Yet, was not this all, for lo ! a brighter form — a 
more majestic presence — tongue of man cannot 
describe it. 

And that presence was Eternity that followeth 
Life and Death. 

And behind it cometh no Shadow. 



DONALD. 



Gie me my dirk, rnither, gie me my plaidie, 
Gie me my bonnet — my bonnet o' blue — 
Snre ye'li no greet if your braw Highland laddie 
Follows his Prince like a gude man and true — 
Follows the standard o' bonnie Prince Charlie. 



Gie me my target wi' siller nails studded, 
Borne by my grandsire in Bothwell's red fray ; 
When wi' the gore o' the foeman was bluided 
The claymore I ask ye to gie me to-day — 
Gie me a broadsword to draw for Prince Charlie. 



Fare weel, my mither, and fare weel, my Annie, 
Fare weel, my brithers, and sisters and a', 
Hear ye the pibrochs they're lilting so cannie — 
They're calling your laddie — your Donald awa', 
Calling him forth to gang fight for Prince Charlie. 



Greet nae sae sadly now ! What if I perish, 

Fighting in front 'mang the true and the brave ? — 

Surely ye a' will my memory cherish ! 

Shall I no sleep in a glorious grave ? 

I shall ha' fought and ha' died for Prince Charlie ! 



IT WAS. 

It is strange that some words, simple words, 
seeming to mean nothing to the many, bring strange 
thoughts to the few. How few of us are there who 
are not impressed by some particular word or phrase, 
which the rest of the world passes unnoticed. 

To the ears of one man, perhaps, only in the 
world, one word has a strange, unearthly music — an 
indescribable echo. 

" It was." 

Yes, reader — look at those two words : "It" — 
a pronoun — neuter gender, third person, singular 
number ; "Was" — a verb — past tense — third person 
singular, to agree with its nominative case " It." 
Take them so — they mean nothing ! 

But together " It was — It was" is what the 
sea is ever murmuring, as it dashes on the shore. 
The grey, angry sea, as it rolls on the sands the 
fragments of some hapless vessel, that has gone 
down amid its dark, mysterious waves, cries hoarsely 
— "It was!" 



IT WAS. 319 

The grey, angry sea, as it heaves and tosses its 
hoary waves over some submerged city — over some 
little sea-side village swallowed up by its ever-en- 
croaching tide, whispers low, as it washes amid the 
ruined walls — and laps around the columned 
terraces, or the desolated hearths — " It was — It 

To me those two words have a solemn and sad 
tone — a deep meaning— "too deep for tears, and far 
too deep for words \" 

In olden time was a city, " throned upon seven 
hills." 

She sent her armies and her colonies through all 
the world, as the heart pulses forth blood through 
the arteries of the whole body. 

In its grand gorgeous streets paced the greatest 
orators — the greatest poets— the greatest warriors. 
In its glittering palaces and golden temples were 
treasured the triumphs of all arts. 

And now — ruins — desolation — poverty. "Roma 
fuit," and we close the classic page, sighing softly — 
sighing sadly — " It was— it was/'' 

There is an old man sitting before his solitary fire. 
His head is bowed upon his hands, his eyes are 
closed, but he is not sleeping. He sees a fair form — 
a slender, girlish form, and by her side a youth, that 
might be him save that his hair is grey, and his 



320 IT WAS. 

frame feeble. And those two wander on happily, 
through green, fresh meadows, by plantations of 
dark odorous firs, and the vision fades away, and 
again he sees her, and in her hair are pure white 
orange-blossoms. And yet again, they pass before 
his eyes, and in her arms she bears a little frail 
bud — a little sleeping child. Then he groans to 
himself, as he opens the plain gold locket that 
hangs from a ribbon next his heart — and he sighs, 
and that sigh says, " It was." 

In that locket, is a dark brown curl, and a little 
golden lock of a child's hair. " It was." 

And so to me come those two words — " It was." 
As I sit here and think, and picture to myself the 
happy hours I have spent— there rises before mine 
eyes a mist-— the mist of unshed tears, and from 
out that mist a voice whispers " It was." 

The happy hours that flew so soon, when we were 
near her — the happy hours spent with dear friends, 
with our parents — our brothers — our sisters — all 
these pass before us, and from the chambers of our 
desolate hearts the voice of the past wails forth — 
" It was— It was." 

How those two words must have haunted the 
mind of that great ambitious eagle-soul, that 
perished in its sea-girt prison, in the rocky islet of 
Saint Helena. As the sun sank blood-red before 



IT WAS. 321 

his dying eyes— the same sun that rose " glorious, 
golden" on the field of Austerlitz— how they must 
have rung in his ears. 

Then must the light have rekindled in his dark- 
ened eyes, and the blood have returned to his pale 
cheeks — the strength of will to those stern lips — 
for a moment, only a moment, and then a struggle, 
and all is over, and never again to him shall those 
words sound, but on the ears of those weeping 
faithful ones around him they must have fallen 
like the strokes of a passing bell, and each one as he 
looked on that calm marble statue of iron- willed 
ambition, said to himself, " It was \" 

Aud when at the "foot of Pompey's statue" 
sank down the bleeding clay that had been Csesar — 
when Brutus thrust back his weapon into its sheatl 
— as he turned his eyes from that lifeless, manglec 
form he had once called his friend — his heart leap 
up into his throat, and choked the words " It was " 
ere they reached his lips. 

I do not think there could be a more touching 
epitaph for a grave, than those two words, " It 
was." In their small compass, what a tale would 
they tell of faded joys— withered hopes — and beauty 
fled for ever ! 

And yet, I would not have those two words, 
only ! 



HELEN IRVING. 

One of the best of the ballad selectors of the day, 
in his introduction to the sad story of Helen Irving, 
who was killed by a shot, aimed at her lover by 
his rival — Bell of Blacket House, remarks, that 
although many of our modern writers have attempted 
to versify this tragic tale, none have ever succeeded 
in writing anything worthy of themselves or it. 

He adds, " perhaps there was never so much 
written on any subject so pathetic with less honour 
to the Muse." 

After this, it may be perhaps presumption in me 
to make the attempt, but I may surely be pardoned 
the vanity of wishing to fail, where so many great 
men have failed before me — 

" Non sine gloria cam Pompeio vincimur." 

I have imitated as far as possible the language in 
which the original ballad was written. 



HELEN IRVING. 



FYTTE THE FIRST. 

The birds sang merry in the bush, 

And merry in the tree. 
When Helen gaed to meet her love 

On fan- Kirconnel Lee. 

Her kin, I wis, the Fleming hate, 

But aye she loves him well : 
And aye she hates her kinsman's choice, 

The traitorous, cruel Bell. 

And sae, as true loves ever do, 
They wailed wi' dole and dree, 

And meet somewhile in the auld kirk aisle 
On fair Kirconnel Lee. 

But as they walked by Kir tie's wave, 
That whispers through the Lee, 

To the ither bank there came the Bell, 
And wroth was he to see ! 

He leant his arm on a willow bough, 

His musket on a stane, 
And Helen saw the cruel deed, 

The Fleming saw it nane. 



324 HELEN IRVING. 

She threw her arms round Fleming's neck, 

She leanit on his breast — 
A shot rings out — a sigh — a sob — 

And Helen is at rest ! 

Then Fleming, when he saw the deed, 
Sware oaths fu' deep to Heaven, 

That till he slew the murderer foul 
No rest might him be given. 

And far awa' across the sea 
Fled Bell, that traitour grim. 

But like his shadow, without cease, 
The Fleming followed him ! 



FYTTE THE SECOND. 

The sun is bright in fair Madrid, 

All in the Spanish land, 
Where in the braw, broad market-place 

The marble fountains stand. 

But ane is there amang the crowd, 
The Fleming kens him well — 

His scowling face — his stealthy pace — 
It is the accursed Bell ! 

He drew his falchion fra s its sheath, 
His falchion true and tried, 



HELEN IRVING. 

Saies " Ae gude blow for Helen's sake 1" 
And smote him in the side. 

Saies " Ae gude blow for Helen's sake !" 

And smote him in the side : 
And Bell lay grovelling on the earth, 

And wi' a curse he died. 

He hackit him in pieces sma', 

"Wi' mony a cut and thrust, 
He hackit him in pieces sma 5 , 

And trode him in the dust. 

He kissed his fauchion's brown, brown blade, 

He lookit on them a' ; 
He thrust his fauchion in its sheath, 

And silent strode awa'. 

His squire he tauld the dreesome tale 

To listener's mony a one, 
The proud auld Spaniards grimly smiled, 

And said it was weel done ! 

And he has ta'en a gallant bark 

To bear him o'er the sea, 
To tak him where his Helen lies, 

On fair Kirconnel Lee. 



326 HELEN IRVING. 



EYTTE THE THIRD. 

Tliey turfed her grave wi' lilies white, 

Eke and wi' violets sweet, 
And they planted ae stone at her head, 

And ae stone at her feet. 

The sexton's bairns they playit there, 
The hug, long summer hours, 

And decked the cross on Helen's grave 
Wi' purple pansy flowers ; 

The purple pansy's tearfu' flowers 
They plucked wi' muckle care, 

To tell to all 'twas Helen's grave, 
And "Love lay bleeding there." 

He came across Kirconnel Lee, 

Beside the Kirtle's wave, 
And silent laid himself adown 

Upon fair Helen's grave. 

The sun rose up, the sun it sank, 

Up cam' the siller moon, 
The little stars through a' the night 

On Helen's grave looked doom 



HELEN IRVING. 327 



The moon rose up, the moon it sank, 

The little stars are gone, 
But still he lay on Helen's grave 

F the blushes o' the dawn. 

The ae bairn to the ither said, 
" He's sleepit mony hours." 

The ither said, " He sleepis weel, 
Wi' his face amang the flowers." 

The ae bairn to the ither said, 

" He lyeth very still." 
The ither answered to the ane, 

" Let's ca' our mither till." 

And first she raised his clay-cauld hand, 
And syne she raised his head, 

And syne she ca'ed her husband till : — 
Bauld Fleming he was dead. 

She ca'ed her gudeman to the kirk, 
Saies " Dig this grave for me, 

And let him bide, by his Helen's side, 
On fan- Kirconnel Lee." 

They rowed them in each ither's arms, 
They buried them wi' care : 

And Fleming and his Helen true 
They sleep for evermair. 



ANGELS. 

Spake I to the world, saying, 

" Angels, — what think you of angels, Great 
World?" 

" Ideas — mere ideas, my good Sir, typical, 
perfectly typical — morally and anatomically impossi- 
ble — very pretty fancies though of the old artists 
and old masters." 

" Yes, — you do well, Wise World, to put your 
heel upon all such absurd fancies. Crush them — 
poor pretty painted butterflies, these poetical ideas, 
—bat, ah, they do so much damage \" 

Then said I to myself, — "Sit thou down here. 
Tell me, mine heart, of Angels, let us commune of 
them." Then it answered, and said unto me, 
" Angels are/' 

Spake I again. " Let us talk of them, tell me, 
mine heart of them." Then began mine heart, and 
said. 

" There is no living being but hath a 



ANGELS. 329 

guardian angel; some have many — some but 
one. 

" Think now, and ponder well my words. 

"There is one angel, that thou may'st remember 
about thy cradle — singing low sweet songs to thee. 
Nay, at that angel's knee did'st thou, grown older, 
lisp thy first prayer. And now that angel whispers 
to thy heart 'This is well' or ' This is ill done/ 
Men call it Conscience, but when that angel walked 
visibly on earth, thy baby lips used to call it 
1 Mother/ 

" And there are yet other angels, who guard thy 
steps through life — some visible, of this world — some 
invisible, of the other world, and one thou callest 
' Father/ others ' Sisters/ ' Brethren/ ' Friend/ 
— all angels ! 

"And behold, there is still another angel, with 
clear, earnest, soft eyes, and long dark locks, that 
make a calm night around your brow when that 
angel stoops over you to kiss you — and a sweet low 
voice, and a light fairy form and step — so light, that 
you know she flies sometimes — she cannot walk so 
silently and swiftly. And that anger's voice is 
sweeter even than the voice of Conscience. And she 
is a visible angel, — and sometimes thou callest it 
'Love/ but in thy later years, it hath a dearer 



3-30 ANGEL8. 

name — the dearest name on earth — ' Wife/ and 
that angel ever dwelleth with thee, and blesseth thee. 

" Perchance, thou hast in after time other angels. 
Little helpless ones they are, and one of their 
guardian angels thou art, and the other is thy 
dearest angel — yet are these angels — called 'Chil- 
dren,' — true angels to thee — speaking to thee 
without words and guiding thee. 

" But that dearest angel is the light and blessing of 
thy life, and in thy youth thou dreamest that forget- 
me-nots first blossomed at her feet, but afterward 
in thy later thoughts she is crowned with pansies. 

" And when thou kneelest down thou prayest God 
— oh, how earnestly !— that that angel may tarry 
long with thee on earth, that no fault of thine may 
cause that she fade away, and leave thee for that 
bright home in Heaven from which, thou knowest 
so well, she came down to be the Life of thy Life. 

" So pray ever, and long may thine angel abide 
with thee \" 

Thus spake my heart to me, in the calm of a 
summer evening. 



FIRE FANCIES. 

Only a bachelor can tell what a comfort a fire is. 
As I sit here writing, there the old fellow is in 
the grate, flickering and flapping up the chimney. 
They were sensible fellows, those Ghebirs, much 
better than the worshippers of stocks and stones ; 
and I do not doubt but that the Persian's Worship 
of the Sun is the same, for he could not, in his hot 
country, worship a good blazing fire, as the Ghebirs 
and I do. 

A bachelor's life is monotonous of an evening 
without a fire, he does not know where to sit, he 
throws himself upon the sofa — there's a draught 
there, and he will catch cold ; he's got no easy 
chair, and he dare not move the sofa (a lodging- 
house one) because it has two or three loose 
castors, which drop off on the slightest movement, 



332 FIRE FANCIES. 

and as fast as lie puts one on again, off tumbles 
another. Who does not know what a " lodging 
sofa" is ? 

What is he to do ? I don't know : but if there 
is a fire, what can be " cosier" than to draw three 
chairs and the little table in front of it, put up 
his legs on two of the former, and sit propped up 
with sofa-cushions on the third, while on the latter 
he puts his coffee, and makes himself comfortable 
for the evening with his pipe (who, by the bye, is a 
near relation of fire.) 

When a man has no company, Fire creates them. 
Fire sparkles, and flames, and throws dancing 
shadows on the walls and ceiling. In the first 
place, there is one's own shadow— that's always 
a pleasant companion ; Maecenas thought so, and 
he was a very clever fellow. Horace says : 

"Maecenas addaxerat umbras." 



Some people say " umbrae" are uninvited persons 
brought by guests, but i" don't believe it. (Every- 
body else "conjectures classical readings." Why 
should not I ?) Maecenas was a rich man, and so 
he bought two or three shadows — lucky fellow — he 



FIRE FANCIES. 333 

must have got them of some Roman Peter Schlemils 
— poor fellows, how I pity them ! 

Well, beside one's own shadow, there's that 
of the arm-chair. Look up on the ceiling — there 
it is. It looks like a little merry old man, 
with his hands on his knees ; look how he nods 
his wicked old head (and, I daresay, winks, only 
we can't see it), at that prim young lady with 
the curious head-dress (she's the little table, with 
the coffee-pot and lamp on it). The shadow of the 
coal-scuttle is something between a frog, a dog, and 
a cow's head. There they are, flickering and bob- 
bing on the wall — growing faint, and then bright 
again all of a sudden, when Fire catches hold of a 
sly coal in the corner of the grate, and begins to 
chuckle and splutter over it. Besides affording us 
this shadowy company (I was going to say shady 
company, but the expression is a dubious one), he's 
very sociable himself, is Fire ; though he has his 
thoughtful moments too, when he winks and pouts 
out little globules of gaseous coal, like a baby 
blowing bubbles with its little fat mouth. 

If he gets hold of wood, he makes a fine to-do ; 
he whistles, and crackles, and throws out sparks, 
and is not altogether such pleasant company as he 
is when he has coals, though even then, if he finds 



334 FIRE FANCIES. 

a bit of slate or stone among them, he ejects it 
summarily, with a loud exclamation. He's very 
pleasant when he gets red and warm, and shoots 
out his queer-shaped flames, and when the curious 
smoke goes winding up the chimney, making faces, 
and rings, and all sorts of shapes. He's facetious, 
too, for sometimes, when he sees you with your 
pipe, he begins too, and puffs out a little jet of 
thick, white smoke, and then he changes it sud- 
denly, with a faint pop, into a jet of bright gas, 
bringing to our recollection the green-grocers in 
Tottenham Court Road. 

Very often people do not take any notice of him, 
so, to remind them, every now and then he falls in 
with a curious rattling crash, and if they don't 
notice him then, he takes refuge in smoke (like a 
great many other ill-used bachelors), and departs by 
the chimney, leaving the cinders to tinkle his knell. 
But he always brightens up if you " make a stir 
about him " with the poker. 

Sometimes he does not talk at all, but looks 
at you with his red eyes, and sets you think- 
ing about where the coals come from, and the 
mines whence was dug the iron for the fender, 
and the place that the marble mantel-piece came 
from. 



FIRE FANCIES. 335 

People do not generally treat him well, poor 
fellow ! Some take the poker and beat him on the 
head, instead of raising his spirits, by inserting the 
instrument at the lowest bar. Some, again, will 
throw ashes upon his head, some smother him with 
coals, or stint him in fuel ; and " oh, the most 
unkindest cut of all !" some even go so far as to 
squeeze him between two bricks, or, by having 
false sides, make the grate smaller. Poor fellow ! 
then he looks anything but a " feu de joie •" he is 
as miserable as he well can be, and shrinks into the 
background ; but give him room, and fuel, and how 
much better he looks. By the bye, there must be 
some connection between coals and the Latin " colo 
— to nourish/' and "coalitus— fellowship." 

A-propos of Latin, the ancients had a higher 
respect for Fire than we have. Witness Vesta and 
Hephaistos; besides, do not the Greeks call Fire 
" pur/' which is the same as " pure," no doubt. 
Promotheus, again — what was he chained and vul- 
turized for? For stealing Fire from Olympus ; and 
his punishment was to be fixed upon the snowy cold 
top of a mountain. Old Zeus wanted to keep the 
invention to himself ! 

Men say that Fire's " a good servant, but a bad 
master." I think he's best as a friend. Picture 



66b FIRE FANCIES. 

to yourself a woody plain in some foreign land, 
resounding with the roar of the lion and his mate. 
There's a man there, who is comfortably lying down 
to sleep. Who is going to watch and defend him ? 
Fire. There's a great bonfire at his side, and Sir 
Lion paces round, at a respectful distance, and licks 
his lips, and growls and grumbles at the fire. He 
dare not come near, so old Ignis chuckles, and 
crackles, and winks at him till daylight. 

Long ago, Fire used to sleep on the tops of hills 
and castles, ready to wake up at any moment, and 
tell all around that the enemy was approaching. 
But now he has left his war-mission at the beacon ; 
he comes and sits and babbles to us, like an old 
grandfather, of what our fathers did in the times 
when he was a " Need-fire." 

Hollo ! the fire's going out ; I must revive it. 
Oh, bachelors ! who of you knows not of the news- 
paper plan ? " If none," then hearken. I rush to 
the sideboard, seize the yesterday's " Times/' and 
hold it across the fire-place, so as to to stop up every 
part except the bottom of the grate ; then I put the 
door open. 

Presently, Fire begins to blink and hum to him- 
self—then he talks louder— the shadows of the 
bars appear and disappear through the paper— he 



FIRE FANCIES. 337 

shouts — and then fairly roaring, he blazes away 
better than ever. 

" Who would not be 
A Salamander, 
In fires to wander, 
To dwell in the holes 
Of bright red coals : 
Living in state 
In a grate ?" 

What a glorious life that of a cricket must be, 
though he only lives near a grate ; but if there were 
such a thing as a Salamander, oh ! should not I like 
the situation ! 

It's my firm belief the Monument was not built 
for the purpose which Fire's traducers assign to it. 
It must have been erected by a society of old bache- 
lors, who put that tassel-like bunch of flames on the 
top to show their gratitude to their friend— their 
old, true — and sometimes only — friend; who would 
share their lodgings with them, and carry comfort, 
and happiness, and warmth everywhere in his jolly, 



LONDON : 

Printed by Schulze and Co., 13, Poland Street. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




014 493 237 7 * I 



